


While You Were Sleeping

by Brenda



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Awesome Shuri (Marvel), Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Is Not Your Damsel, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky's No Good Horrible Very Bad Day, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Post-Credits Scene, Epistolary, Genius Shuri (Marvel), M/M, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, POV Bucky Barnes, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Protective Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson is So Done, Slow Burn, Steve's Letters To Bucky, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-02-12 16:17:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 45,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12963345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/pseuds/Brenda
Summary: Bucky wakes up from cryo to find himself in a world without Steve - and that's just the beginning of his problems.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tmn1966](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tmn1966/gifts).



> My (very very very very) late fic for TMN1966, who donated an incredible amount of money to FTH. Thank you, you rock. <3

_March 1st, 2017_

__

_Dear Buck,_

_You ever have those nights when you're too tired to go to sleep, even though you know you should? Like how we used to get after missions during the war sometimes – days upon days on the move and no downtime, and how afterwards, we'd just stare at each other for a couple of hours without moving, too exhausted to crawl into our bedrolls, or even close our eyes._

_I feel like I've been having one of those nights for the past two years. Four, if I'm being honest about it. Ever since they pulled me from the ice. I feel like – I dunno, I guess the best way to describe it is, sometimes I think this is all a dream somehow. That I'm still down there in the Valkyrie and none of this is real._

_If you were here, you'd probably remind me that my imagination's not that good, and you'd have a point. It's just – I don't know, Buck, I really don't. And I'm not sure why I'm even writing this out – we were never much for this sort of thing. Talking like this. Maybe we should have done more of it. Maybe things would have been different if we'd talked – I mean, really talked. Opened up to each other about the things we didn't think we could say. There are so many things that, even now, even after everything we've been through, I'm scared shitless to tell you._

_But I'll work on it, I promise. As soon as you're back for good, we'll – well, I guess we'll see what happens then. But I want to. And – I hope you do, too._

_I'm headed out in the morning. Nat got in touch, finally. She needs a second pair of eyes and hands for an op – some new player making their move. She wouldn't give too many details, even over a secured line, so I don't know too much about what we're up against. I could be gone a week, maybe two, so don't worry if I'm not around to read to you for a little while. Not that you should – I can take care of myself now. And, as much as I miss your rifle at my six, the simple truth is, I miss you more. So I'm okay if you never pick up another weapon or never suit up for battle again. I just want you to do what makes you happy. _

_God, I sound maudlin – I guess I'm more tired than I thought. I'm sorry. I should try to get some sleep, I guess. ~~Feel free to ignore all of this or maybe I'll~~_

_I'll see you when I get back._

_Yours,_  
_Steve_  


***

Bucky jerked awake, already groping under his pillow for his Glock, before he registered that the rat-a-tat sound was a knock on his door. He swept his gaze over the room, cataloguing everything in a matter of seconds – large window letting in filtered light, bookcase, dresser – and he was in a bed. _Why_ was he in a bed? Why wasn't he in the lab? What had happened to the cryo tube? 

"Barnes, yo, up and at 'em, soldier!" a low voice shouted, muffled through the wood.

Bucky jumped to his feet and crossed the room. He threw the door open with a scowl. "What the hell is going on?"

Sam Wilson clapped a hand over his eyes, and let out a low, pained groan. "Man, at least throw on a robe or a tea cozy or something. I do _not_ need to see that much of you before breakfast. It's killing my appetite."

Bucky glanced down at himself – he was completely naked – and his frown increased. He'd been wearing clothes when he stepped into the cryo tube, he was sure of it. Soft tank, softer sleep pants, both white. Why wasn't he wearing them now? And why had he been moved? 

"What's going on?" he demanded, his voice cold and harsh. Every inch the Soldier he'd been trying so hard to leave behind.

Wilson didn't move his hand from his eyes. He was dressed in his Falcon uniform, minus the wing pack. "We've got credible intel that your girl and her new pet are holed up in Shanghai. Stark wants us wheels up in ten. Which means clothes, for the love of God, at least put on some damn boxers so you're not out there in the field fighting like some ancient Celt or whatever the hell."

Stark? Girl? _Shanghai?_ What the hell was Wilson talking about...? 

"Where's Steve?" he asked, not budging. He wasn't going anywhere until he had some answers. "When did I come out of cryo? And what the fuck is Stark doing in Wakanda?"

Had King T'Challa decided to turn him over to the UN? Was there a task force on its way to the palace to bring Bucky to The Hague to stand trial for his Winter Soldier crimes? Had Steve finally decided to cut his losses and go back to his former life as head of the Avengers? Not that Bucky would blame him if he had; he'd done nothing except cause Steve trouble and turmoil since that day on the bridge. 

Wilson dragged his hand down, and squinted Bucky's way, carefully keeping his gaze neck up, like he was suddenly squeamish about seeing another man's junk. Like he hadn't been in the military himself, and had undoubtedly seen much worse. Under normal circumstances, Bucky would have given him eighteen shades of shit for it, and been delighted in Wilson's obvious discomfit. Right now, though, all he wanted was for someone to tell him where he was and why Steve wasn't standing at Wilson's side.

"What are you...are you alright, man?" Wilson asked, and now his tone was soothing, sympathetic. A far cry from the usual barbs and insults they'd traded before Bucky went under. "Cryo, Wakanda, _Steve_... You haven't dreamed about Steve in forever. You have a bad night?"

"I..." Bucky shook his head. "I'm not sure." Why couldn't he remember coming out of cryo? And where the _hell_ was Steve? He'd promised to be there when Bucky woke up. Even if Steve _had_ decided to turn Bucky over to Tony, he wouldn't send Sam in his stead to break the news. Steve was many things, but he wasn't a coward.

Wilson clapped a hand on Bucky's shoulder, and lightly squeezed. "Hey, if you need to sit this one out, we'll manage. But it'd be nice to have Captain America out there with us, leading the troops like always."

Captain America. _Steve._ "Steve's...leading us on a mission?" he asked, hesitantly. It didn't explain everything – like why he was in the room or why he wasn't wearing anything, or what Stark had to do with any of it – but it would at least explain why Steve wasn't here to greet Bucky himself. Steve had always taken his leadership role seriously. 

"What, no, not Steve." Wilson dropped his hand to gesture at him. "I meant _you_. Our fearless leader. When you're not busy trying to act like you live in a nudist colony, that is."

Him? _Captain America?_ What the hell was Wilson talking about? Bucky turned, frowning, as he took in the room in greater detail. It was utilitarian, consisting of just the bed and nightstand and the dresser on the opposite side with the half-full bookcase beside it, and in the corner was – 

His gaze flew back to Wilson, accusatory. "Why the fuck are Steve's uniform and shield here?"

How did Steve even get the shield back? The last time Bucky'd seen it, it had been lying on the ground at Tony Stark's feet in the Hydra compound in Siberia.

Wilson let out a low whistle. "Yeah, you _did_ have a rough night," he stated, and dragged a hand over his chin. "Alright, look, I'll tell Stark we'll head out on our own and I'll send Wanda in to sit with you. You seem to do better after you two've talked."

"I..." Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose, giving his head another quick shake to try to dispel the low-level ringing in his ears. Nothing was making any sense. "I don't know what's..." 

He trailed off again as he looked down at his hand. His left hand, shining and metal and still attached to his body, the metal plates shifting as he flexed his fingers. "My arm..."

Why wasn't it the new one? He had a vague recollection of...testing? Yes, that was it, they'd brought him out of cryo to...run tests on the new arm. And Steve had been there, Bucky remembered, concern and relief shining out of soulful blue eyes, and then – 

Why couldn't he remember what happened next?

"You need Banner to look at it?" Wilson asked. "Is it still pinching at the wrist?"

"What, no, it's..." He rotated his wrist experimentally, and eyed the plates, all the way up to his shoulder. It looked and moved and felt just like the arm Stark had blasted off – only, instead of the red star Karpov had etched into the metal decades ago, there was a white star surrounded by a blue ring with a red ring running along the outside; it reminded him Steve's shield.

Something was very, very wrong.

Fingers snapped in front of his face. Wilson's face was lined with concern. "Barnes, c'mon, stay with me. You look a million miles away."

"My arm." He couldn't stop staring at it. Aside from the shield instead of the star, it looked just like the one Schmidt had made for him. Nothing at all like the one he, Steve, and King T'Challa had designed before he’d gone under. "It, um..."

"Yeah, that does it, I'm gonna go get Wanda," Wilson said, and turned to leave.

Bucky grabbed his wrist to keep him in place. "No, wait, I..." He dropped his hand when Wilson turned back to him. "Just...please. Tell me where Steve is."

He needed Steve to tell him what the hell was happening and why Stark was here and why Bucky was in possession of his old arm and Steve's shield. Wilson may have had Steve's trust – and that wasn't an easy thing – but Bucky didn't know Wilson. He _knew_ Steve. And whatever was happening, he'd believe it if Steve told him.

Steve, who'd never lied to him, not once, no matter what the cost to him personally. Steve, who'd been there for him, steadfast and true and as steady as a mountain, even as hard as Bucky'd tried the last few years to push him away.

Wilson's face softened. "He's gone, man. Been gone a long, long time. You lost him in 1945 when his plane went down over the Arctic, remember?"

Gone? Lost? "No, that's not..." Bucky stumbled back a step. "But you found him. He's...you _found_ him." 

He _remembered_ that much. He'd seen Steve with his own eyes, talked to him, fought against him and _with_ him, for Christ's sake. Steve had saved his life in Bucharest and Berlin and Siberia, and had brought him to Wakanda when King T'Challa had offered sanctuary. Steve's smiling eyes and his low laugh were the last things Bucky remembered before everything went black.

Steve was _alive_. He knew that much.

"You know we're still looking," Wilson replied, still so soft and gentle, like he thought Bucky would break. "But it's been over 70 years. Even if we found the Valkyrie, it'd just be to make sure Steve got a proper burial. Even if he'd survived the crash, he would have long since drowned."

Burial? Drowned? This wasn't right. This was...it was a test or he was still in cryo or he was hallucinating or... He pinched his flesh arm with metal fingers, hard enough to bruise, and winced at the sharp throb of pain. 

"Jesus, what the...?" Wilson clamped down on Bucky's hand. "What the hell are you doing, man?"

"I'm dreaming." Except his skin was already starting to purple, and he was still standing naked in an unfamiliar room with Steve's shield and uniform in the corner, and Wilson was in front of him, worry all but seeping out of his pores.

"Your name is James Buchanan Barnes, you were fished out from a snowdrift in Austria in 2012, and you've been working for the Avengers Initiative as Captain America for the last five years. And right now, we need you to suit up and do your job and lead the team so we can finally take Schmidt down."

"Schmidt? Johann?" But...Johann Schmidt was dead. Had been dead for decades; Bucky didn't know the exact year, just that he'd been given to Karpov as a gift after Schmidt's death. 

" _Sinthea_ ," Wilson corrected, and oh, oh fuck, this was so much worse. As bad as Johann had been, his daughter easily surpassed him in both depravity and brilliance. Except...she was also dead. Wasn't she? Zemo had murdered her, just like he'd done Karpov.

"You're telling me Sinthea Schmidt is alive?" he asked, carefully sounding each word.

Tension lines creased Wilson's forehead. "Unless you know something the rest of us don't. And Nat thinks she's got a good lead on where she might be."

"And...we're working with Stark to bring her in?" Nothing was ringing any bells, but this was way too vivid for a dream. Which meant, as hard as it was to fathom, this was actually happening. 

Which meant Steve was... 

_No_. 

Bucky refused to believe it. He would have _known_ , even in cryo, if something had happened to Steve. He wasn't lost in the Arctic, no matter what Wilson said. He was around somewhere. Bucky just had to play along at whatever the hell this was long enough to find him.

"Yeah." Wilson nodded, pleased. "That's right. So, are you suiting up or not?"

"I, um, yeah, yeah, just give me..." His entire _being_ balked at the idea of putting on Steve's uniform, but he was bound to get more answers if he was out and about than stuck in this too small room. "Five minutes."

"You got it. I'll wait for you, okay."

"Yeah, um, great." Bucky closed the door, and sagged against it for a brief moment. He scanned the room again, looking for any clues that might tell him where he was, but there wasn't much to go on. A battered paperback copy of one of the Harry Potter books was on the nightstand next to a lamp, a quick search of the dresser drawers only revealed tanks and tees, socks and briefs, and the small closet only held a few pair of jeans, two hoodies, and a black leather jacket. There was an assortment of books on the bookcase shelves, but nothing stuck out, and he was running out of time before Wilson got even more suspicious than he already was.

He quickly pulled on a pair of briefs and a tank top, then sat on the edge of the bed to sort out the various pieces of the uniform. Kevlar reinforced top and pants, but with enough give that Bucky could move without impediment. It also fit Bucky perfectly, which meant it had been modified in some way – he and Steve were close to the same height, but Steve was bigger through the chest, while Bucky had bigger thighs and calves. The boots were steel-toed, and the belt held a gun holster, but he didn't see any weapon in the room. The cowl and gloves were butter-soft to the touch and, when Bucky hefted the shield to inspect it, the claw marks King T'Challa had made during the battle in Leipzig were nowhere on the surface. Just a few nicks and dings under the paint.

Was it a fake? A replica? It _felt_ like vibranium, but he wouldn't know for sure if it was the same shield until he'd thrown it. During the War, Steve had insisted that every member of the Howlies learn how to use the shield, just in case, and Bucky remembered – he _remembered_ – afternoons at the base camp in London, running drills, throwing it at various objects, testing angles and speeds, familiarizing himself with the weight and feel of it. Remembered Steve's patient lessons on how to slot his arc, flatten his wrist to get more torque, remembered the rest of the Howlies giving each other a hard time for every failure and encouraging every success in equal measure. 

He grabbed the gloves, cowl and shield and opened the door again. Wilson was leaning against the wall, but he straightened, nodding approvingly, when he saw Bucky. "Now that's more like it," he said.

Bucky gestured at him. "Let's go." 

Wilson led him down a nondescript hallway and into a large hangar, housing two quinjets and three smaller aircraft that looked like modified fighter jets. The ramp to one of the quinjets was lowered, and Tony Stark himself, casually dressed in jeans and an AC/DC t-shirt, sauntered down it, smirking when he stopped in front of Wilson and Bucky.

"Decide to sleep in, Barnes? That's not like you."

How the hell would Stark know his sleep patterns? Why was he even speaking to Bucky at all after what happened in Siberia? Why was Stark _here_ and acting like they were friends or colleagues? And where the hell was he, since it sure as hell wasn't Wakanda?

"Cut him some slack," Wilson replied, and looked around him. "Is Wanda around?"

"She and Barton are already en route to Nat's position," Stark said, then rubbed his hands together gleefully. "Ready to roll out?"

Bucky wasn't ready to do anything except demand some answers, but he nodded, playing along. If they gave him a comms unit, maybe he could use it to get in touch with King T'Challa and get to the bottom of whatever was happening.

"Alright, jet's fueled and loaded for bear, so have fun." Stark smacked them both on the arm, then strolled away, whistling under his breath.

"He's not coming with us?" Bucky asked, frowning. He would feel better having Stark in his sights. The low-level ringing in his ears was back, a little louder now.

"UN Council meeting," Wilson replied. "He and Rhodes are on standby."

Rhodes. James Rhodes, War Machine. The last Bucky'd heard, Rhodes was paralyzed from the waist down after Leipzig – friendly fire, Steve had told him – and Stark had put the blame square on Wilson's shoulders. Yet, here Stark was, acting like everything was fine. Acting like he and Wilson were still on good terms. Acting like he didn't want Bucky dead for killing his parents.

"You good to go?" Wilson asked, as they walked up the ramp. "I know how picky you are about someone else taking the stick, but I can fly us out –"

"No, I'm fine." If Bucky was manning the controls, then he would at least know where they were going. He strapped himself into the pilot's seat and went through pre-flight check, Wilson taking the co-pilot seat next to him. 

They lifted off smoothly, and Bucky punched in the coordinates Wilson gave him. Just outside Shanghai. He wanted to ask about Steve – what had happened, why Wilson thought Steve was still missing, why Bucky had taken on the Captain America mantle – but he stilled his tongue. If something was wrong, it wouldn't do to draw any more undue attention to himself.

"Tell me what Romanov found," he said instead, glancing at Wilson out of the corner of his eye.

"Well, you know how she's been out the last couple of weeks following leads on Rumlow's buyer" – No, Bucky didn't know anything of the sort, but he gestured Wilson to keep talking – "and one of her CIs, you know, the ones she tries not to use unless it's an emergency, told her one of the mob bosses in Shanghai had contracted the Winter Soldier for a hit, and well, since we know Sinthea's his handler, it wasn't that much of a –"

"The...the Winter Soldier?" 

There was that curious ringing again. Shrill. Insistent. He couldn't have heard Wilson correctly. _He_ was the Winter Soldier – the only one Hydra'd managed to control in the field, the only one to make it through the physical and cognitive recalibration tests. The other subjects had been far too volatile, far too violent, and had been kept in stasis. Not to mention, they were all dead now, by Zemo's hand – Bucky'd seen the proof with his own eyes.

Wilson grimaced. "Yeah, you know, big, muzzled, blond dude, wears all black, killed Fury –"

"No, that's not..." Bucky shook his head; the ringing was getting louder. Couldn't Wilson hear it? "That's not what..." Fury was alive. Steve had _told_ him that Fury had survived, so Bucky wouldn't have that death on his conscience, and Steve wouldn't lie to him, he...

"Hey, man, you doing okay? You don't look so hot."

Bucky opened his mouth to say – what, he wasn't sure – but instead he pitched forward, the ringing at ear-shattering levels – 

 

Bucky jerked awake, heart pounding, already groping under his pillow for his Glock, when he registered the staccato rapping of someone knocking on his bedroom door. Bedroom...why was he back in the bedroom? In the bed? Why wasn't he in the quinjet? What had happened to the mission? To Wilson? To the hunt for Sinthea Schmidt?

The door creaked open and Bucky tensed, ready to duck out of the way of gunfire, then blinked in confusion when Natasha Romanov's head poked around the corner. "You planning on sleeping all morning or were you going to join us for breakfast?"

Breakfast? The last thing he remembered was – 

He shot up, the sheet pooling around his waist. "What happened to the mission? Where's Wilson?"

"Sam? He's making pancakes," Romanov said, looking bemused. "You know, like he always does on Sunday."

"Like he... _what_?" Bucky glanced around the room. It looked much the same as last time – same bookcase, same closet, same dresser, even the same Harry Potter book on the nightstand – but Steve's uniform and shield were nowhere to be seen. Instead, he saw his old Winter Soldier uniform on the floor, and his old rifle propped up against the wall by the window.

What the _hell_ was happening?

"How did I get back here?" he demanded. "Where's Steve's shield?"

"Steve's shield?" A complicated series of emotions flashed across Romanov's face before she schooled them into impassiveness. "Steve's gone, James. He didn't survive the thawing out process. He's buried with the shield at Arlington. You spoke at the service, remember?"

No, he _didn't_ remember. The last thing he remembered was flying a quinjet, Wilson at his side, heading to Shanghai to find Sinthea Schmidt. How did he wind up back in this room? And what the hell was this about Steve dying? When had they had time to find him and thaw him out...?

Wait. That wasn't right. That wasn't the truth. Steve wasn't lost or in the bottom of the Arctic or dead. Steve was alive. Bucky would _know_ if he wasn't.

Some of his confusion must have shown on his face, because Romanov walked into the room and sat on the edge of the bed. She sandwiched his metal hand – still the old one that Hydra'd given him – between her own, the touch gentle and very at odds with the deadly operative he knew her to be. "I know it's been hard for you since the funeral, so if you need some time off, the team has your back. We can hold down the fort until you're ready."

"Funeral? Time off?" He glanced at the Winter Soldier outfit again, his gaze skittering across it. What sort of missions was he on? Who was he working for? SHIELD? King T'Challa? The Avengers? "What happened to the quinjet?"

"Quinjet?"

He nodded, glancing down at Romanov's hands, still soft and comforting, over his own. Why did he still have his old arm? Why was everyone acting like everything was _normal_ when it wasn't. Why wasn't Steve _here_ , sitting beside him on the bed, and telling him everything he'd missed?

"The last thing I remember...Wilson and I were in a quinjet. We were flying out to meet you."

Her brows furrowed. "I've been back at the compound for almost a week. Are you telling me you don't remember anything?"

He shook his head. "None of this is right," he murmured, mostly to himself.

"Hey, pancakes are almost..." Wilson paused in the doorway, spatula in hand, and frowned. He was wearing an apron reading _You don't have to kiss me but you could get me a beer_. That, at least, rang as in character for what Bucky knew about Wilson and his dry sense of humor. 

"Is everything good?" Wilson asked, looking between them with a concerned expression.

"Everything's fine." Romanov smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Can you give us a moment, Sam?"

Wilson nodded in understanding. "I'll make sure to save you some hash browns," he said, and backed out of the door.

"What happened to Sinthea Schmidt? Did we...did we capture her?" Why couldn't he remember it? Or flying back? Or Steve's funeral? Why couldn't he remember anything about how he'd gotten to this compound in the first place? And where _was_ this compound? 

"Sinthea Schmidt?" It was Romanov's turn to look confused. "What about her?"

"We were..." The shrill ringing was back in his ears, loud and growing louder. Unrelenting. Impossible to ignore. He tried to make himself heard over the din. "We were...going after her..."

"James?" Her voice sounded like it was coming from the wrong end of a wind tunnel. The ringing increased, the cacophony overtaking all other sound –

 

"– I'm sorry, Barnes, are we boring you?"

Bucky jerked his head up, his booted feet hitting the floor on a loud thump. "What?" he asked, glancing around the table.

Romanov and Wilson were sitting across from him, both giving him curious looks. Beside them, Stark was grinning like he was deeply amused about something, and, at the head of the table, standing tall and imposing and very much alive, was Nicholas Fury.

"Enjoy your nap?" Fury's voice was as dry as the desert at high noon. He leveled a glare at Stark. "And one more crack from you, Stark, and that cave you were locked up in in Afghanistan will look like Club Med compared to where I'll throw you."

"Ouch, Nick, that's a little harsh," Stark said, but obligingly straightened from his slouch. "I wasn't even the one falling asleep during class."

"I wasn't..." Bucky trailed off. _Had_ he been asleep? Was that what had happened? Some crazy fucked up dream? Everything was all so jumbled in his head, maybe he really had forgotten. But how could he have forgotten coming out of cryo? Walking into a meeting? Why weren't Steve and King T'Challa sitting at the table? Why was Stark here instead, within touching distance, and _not_ trying to kill him?

"The clock's ticking," Fury said, then gestured at Bucky. "You were going to debrief us on Sinthea Schmidt?"

He was? Was that why he'd been dreaming about her earlier? Trying to remember as much as he could about the time they'd worked together?

Romanov fixed a steady gaze on Bucky, her hands clasped together on the table. "What do we need to know?"

He straightened, the soldier in him reacting on instinct to the authority in her voice, in spite of his many questions. "Uh, well, Johann Schmidt was, as I'm sure you're aware, obsessed with ensuring his work and his genius would live on after his death. He, um, started experimenting with genome splicing in the late '80s. Sinthea was the result of that experiment."

"Wait, he'd died already by then," Wilson interrupted. "How is that possible?"

"He had his consciousness downloaded into a computer," Romanov said, grimacing. "Trust me, it's as creepy as it sounds."

"So, she was, what, a petri baby?" Stark asked.

Bucky shook his head. "An orphan he had injected with some of his DNA and some serum that accelerated her genes or, I dunno, something that allowed her to both grow and learn at an expediential rate. In a short span of time, her capacities and skills outshone even his, especially in scientific fields."

"Where did you come in?" Fury asked.

Why was everyone so interested in Sinthea Schmidt? Zemo had killed her, just like he'd killed Karpov, and everyone else who had been a part of the Winter Soldier program. He'd left a trail of dead bodies behind in his quest for revenge on the Avengers. None of this was adding up. 

And there was still the not-so-small matter of Steve's absence, and why Bucky wasn't in a cryochamber in Wakanda under King T'Challa's protection. If there _was_ a briefing on Sinthea's whereabouts, wouldn't Steve want to be the first person to know? Wouldn't he be the one to lead the team?

"Barnes?" Fury prompted impatiently, when Bucky didn't answer right away.

"Right, um." He rubbed his forehead; already he could hear ringing, but it was muted, as if dampened by cotton batting. "I trained her in self-defense and espionage. How to blend into a crowd, how to slip unnoticed around checkpoints, how to hit a moving target at a thousand yards out, how to flay a man alive inch by inch, all manner of methods of interrogation and torture. Schmidt wanted to make sure she knew how to look out for herself, if needed."

Stark gave a long, low whistle, and rounded his shoulders back. "So, you're telling me we've got someone running around out there who's as good of a scientist as Schmidt, but with your combat and interrogation skills?" he asked.

"Essentially, yes." She wasn't _as_ good as Bucky, but it wasn't for lack of aptitude or enthusiasm during her training. Sinthea had been, by far, Bucky's best student.

" _Jesus_ ," Wilson breathed, a look of horror creeping over his face. 

"We also know she was the buyer who hired Rumlow to steal the bio-weapon from IFID in Lagos," Romanov said. "It's still not clear if she actually wanted it for anything specific, but if she got her hands on any sort of biological agent, it wouldn't be a good thing."

Weapon...? Oh right, the Avengers' incident in Nigeria that had led to the creation of the Sokovia Accords. That had been Sinthea's doing, not Rumlow's? Had Bucky known that already? Had Steve told him or had he found out another way?

"Yeah, but if what Barnes is saying is true, she's more than capable of creating her own biological or chemical weapon," Stark said. "She wouldn't have needed to steal one."

"So, if she wanted that virus, then it was for a specific reason," Wilson surmised. "I don't know about you guys, but that's not gonna help me sleep better at night."

"Which leads us to the next question," Fury said. "What does she want with The Winter Soldier?"

The what??? 

Bucky looked down at himself – he was once again dressed in the modified Captain America uniform and with the same metal arm from his earlier...dream? Had it been a dream? It had felt so real. 

What was going on? Who was this Winter Soldier Wilson and Fury had both mentioned, if it wasn't him? Wilson had called him big and blond, and Steve was –

No, Bucky couldn't even complete the thought. It was too absurd. _Bucky_ was the Winter Soldier. It didn't matter what uniform he wore, he knew who he was.

"You think she might use the Winter Soldier to try to take out her next target?" Wilson asked, oblivious to Bucky's thoughts. "Would that be a viable reason to keep him alive?"

"She might be trying to duplicate her father's research and create more Winter Soldiers," Stark said, shrugging. "I mean, I hate to be the one to bring it up, but..."

"Yeah, that's not completely terrifying or anything," Wilson replied, rubbing at his temple like he was fighting off a headache.

"But, if she _is_ setting up a lab somewhere, we might be able to at least track the equipment she'd need," Romanov said.

Fury straightened to his full height. "There are some old Hydra bases she could be using as a base of operations. Might be another place to poke around, see what shakes out."

"We should start there," Wilson said, then nodded at Bucky. "Cap, you up for it?"

Bucky automatically glanced at the door, hoping to see Steve's familiar form striding confidently into the room, with a sardonic smile and a chiding quip for starting the meeting without him. But there was no one there. It took Bucky a second to figure out Wilson had meant _him_.

Where _was_ Steve? Why wasn't he in his own uniform and leading his own team and his own missions? Why was everyone around him trying to force Steve's role on him? He didn't want anything to do with Captain America. He just wanted Steve back.

"Barnes, you okay?" Stark asked. 

No, he wasn't even in the same country as okay. But he just nodded. "Yeah," he said, belatedly. "Whatever you need."

Everyone stood and made to leave the room, but Bucky lingered a minute, until it was just him and Fury. "So, uh, could I have a word?"

Fury folded his hands in front of himself. "What's on your mind, Cap?"

He didn't flinch at the nickname this time, but it was a near thing. He _wasn't_ Cap. That was Steve. That would always be Steve. 

He had so many questions – a list as long as his arm, in fact – but there was only one important one. "So, uh, I know this is going to sound like a weird question, but...Steve? Steve Rogers. Where is he?"

A thunderous frown appeared on Fury's face. "This your idea of a joke, Barnes?"

"No?"

"Really? Because asking me about your dead childhood best friend while we're in the middle of a serious op involving a major player sounds a little bit like a joke."

 _Dead_ childhood best friend? No, no that wasn't... Steve was _alive_. He'd survived every illness his too-frail body had thrown at him before the serum, and he'd survived the procedure and every battle they'd all fought during the War, and he'd survived his plane crashing and he'd survived the helicarrier and Sokovia and Bucharest and Siberia. Steve was somewhere out there, waiting for Bucky to come back from whatever the fuck this was, because he'd promised he'd _be_ there when Bucky woke up. And, if there was one thing Bucky still remembered in vivid detail, something no amount of torture or brainwashing could ever erase, it was that Steve Rogers' word was as solid as oak. 

"Steve's not dead," he insisted, because fuck whatever kind of sick joke or experiment this was. Schmidt had tried this tactic back in the early days of his captivity, and he hadn't believed it then. There was no way he was going to blindly accept it now. 

Bucky _knew_ the goddamn truth.

"I have no idea why everyone keeps telling me he's either dead or lost or that he's – but he's not, I know he's..." He jerked, clutching at his ears as the ringing abruptly got louder, a hundred alarms going off inside his head, the noise rattling his very bones.

"He's _not_..." he managed, before the piercing sound forced him to his knees –

 

Bucky came to, retching, all but collapsing into the strong arms keeping him from falling on his face. He shivered, heaving up bile, white spots dancing behind his eyelids, as a big, blond stranger cradled Bucky to his chest as easily as if Bucky was one of his sister's old rag dolls. And, when he was finally able to lift his head to look around the room, the sight that greeted him was not Steve's broad shoulders and too-hopeful face, but, rather, the stern one of Romanov.

This was getting super fucking old.

"Easy," the blond murmured, His voice was low and soothing, but rumbled through the room like thunder. "Give yourself a moment to find your feet."

He flicked another glance outward, but Steve was nowhere in sight. Dr. A'kane was there, as was King T'Challa, but he had no idea who it was holding him up. At least his surroundings looked familiar this time – he was in the lab housing his cryochamber, so he was back in Wakanda, which was a step in the right direction. Although something about it still felt off. Askew in a way that made the hairs on his arms stand up. 

Bucky coughed once experimentally, but nothing else looked like it was coming up, so he concentrated on his breathing, and working through the burning in his throat. Romanov kept a weathered eye on him the entire time, not moving, just standing with her arms crossed, her face stoic. That, at least, felt more like the Natasha Romanov he knew of.

But, despite the appearances of normalcy, different than the last few times Bucky'd woken up, something about all of this still felt deeply and terribly wrong. 

After a minute, he pushed himself out of the comfort zone of the big guy's arms, and stood on wobbly feet. A water glass with a straw was pressed into his hand, and he took a few small sips, all but weeping in gratitude at the clean, pure taste. Even if this was just another mind-fuck or test or simulation, at least whoever it was pulling the strings was paying attention to the tiny details.

"Where's Steve?" he choked out, then brought the straw back to his lips. Waited, expectant, but bracing himself for the worst.

"Maybe we should give him a moment to settle," the big guy suggested.

"There's no time, Thor, we need intel now," Romanov replied, her gaze on Bucky never wavering. "You know exactly where he is. Or where he was. But someone's moved the body and we need you to help recover it."

_Moved the body._

Bucky stayed still and silent to give himself a moment to process the words. To process what she was saying. Moved the body. They needed Bucky to help recover it. Recover Steve's _body_.

The snarling beast that lived inside him howled in protest. _No_. There was no way Steve was dead. He refused to believe it. Even if something had happened, even if he'd been in the deepest cryo sleep, he would have _known_ , goddammit, if something happened to Steve. 

Whatever the hell was happening to him, someone was going through a lot of trouble to make him think Steve was no longer around in some capacity. But, whoever it was, they didn't know Bucky at all, or they never would have tried to use this tactic. Bucky's memories might be scrambled and his brain might have more holes in it than a slice of Swiss cheese, but the one thing he knew into the marrow of his bones was Steve and the bond they had. A connection so strong and profound, it had broken through seventy years of torture and conditioning, a foundation so solid that they'd both defied the world to protect the other in the face of overwhelming odds, even after Bucky had done everything in his power to try and hide from it – 

Steve was okay and he was out there, and all Bucky had to do was figure out what was happening in his brain so he could find Steve himself.

And, as soon as he reassured himself with his own eyes that Steve was fine, he was punching the dumb jerk right in the mouth for making him worry. For making him doubt, even for a second, that Steve was anything other than safe.

But, he'd been trained far too well and for far too long to let any of his inner turmoil show on his face. His fingers, still wrapped around the glass, didn't so much as tremble. But his voice was a cold, hard clip when he spoke.

"Tell me what happened."

"We are still working to piece together a timeline," King T'Challa said, finally stepping closer. He looked troubled, old, even more weary than the last time Bucky'd seen him, who knew how long ago now. A little more was coming back to him now, a fragile timeline slowly stitching itself together in his head.

The last thing he remembered – that he truly remembered as _real_ – was talking to Steve while King T'Challa and Dr. A'kane and her techs ran a few simulations on his new arm. They'd brought him out of cryo for a short time to run the tests because they'd needed his neural input while he was awake and responsive. He and Steve – larger than life and twice as beautiful and _real_ – had been chuckling over something, some terrible joke Steve had made, and Bucky's laugh had been rusty, but Steve hadn't seemed to mind. Steve's own laughter had been the best sound Bucky had heard in decades.

How long ago had that been? And why didn't he remember going back under again?

He looked down and saw the gleaming metal of his arm; this time, it looked just like the one he had designed, with the King's and Steve's input. He rotated his wrist and wiggled his fingers, every motion clean and smooth and silent. It was a definite upgrade from the old one, more responsive and conducive, far beyond even what Hydra's most brilliant minds could have conceived. When he glanced at his shoulder, however, there was no red star, no blue and white shield. Just silver vibranium.

"How long has Steve been...?" Bucky trailed off meaningfully. 

"His body's been missing almost a day," the blond – Thor – replied. Asgardian prince, part of the Avengers initiative, one of Steve's closest friends. He looked like he punched tanks for a living, which, Bucky thought, gave him a lot in common with Steve.

"And we think – we're pretty sure," Romanov corrected, "we know who took him."

"Who?" Bucky asked, although he had a good idea already, if the earlier simulations or hallucinations or whatever, were anything to go on. 

If possible, the look on her face became even more inscrutable. "We don't have a name, but she's calling herself Mother Superior."

Mother Superior. One of Sinthea Schmidt's old aliases. 

Somehow, she was a key to whatever was happening to him. He just needed to figure out exactly what that was, and find his way back to Steve. Which was a good place to start. He could work with this. He'd run successful missions on far less intel and with far, far less at stake.

"Her real name is Sinthea Schmidt," he said, and carefully watched as Romanov's eyebrows shot up to her hairline.

"Related to Johann, I'm assuming," King T'Challa said, and nodded when Bucky did. 

Romanov took a step closer. "Tell us what you know about her."

One of the technicians came forward with a stethoscope; Bucky stood still, allowed his vitals to be checked and charted as he tried to remember every scrap of information he could, every memory, every detail, any bit of flotsam about Sinthea and her methods and inventions that might help him figure out what was happening. He should let the scenario play out, and hope someone, somewhere, slipped up long enough to clue Bucky in on where he was and what was really going on.

Because this – whatever this place was – it wasn't real. 

He shrugged, deliberate. "Well, I trained her, so you tell me."

"That's not an answer."

Bucky pulled his lips back into a feral grin. "I don't take orders from you or anyone else these days."

Romanov scowled. "We didn't have to wake you. This is a courtesy call."

"Yeah, I'm calling bullshit on that," Bucky retorted. "You wouldn't have bothered unless you needed me." 

"This posturing is getting us nowhere." Thor's tone was soft, but there was no mistaking the authority in it. A prince used to being obeyed. "Perhaps it would be best if we gave James –"

"My name is Bucky."

"My apologies, if we gave Bucky some time to acclimate himself –"

"We _don't_ have that kind of time –" Romanov started, but Bucky was no longer listening. The ringing had started again, high-pitched and ear-piercing, blocking out all other sound. Somehow, this sound was key to whatever this all was, but he couldn't concentrate on anything other than the noise, like a thousand drills boring into his skull.

He covered his ears and dropped to his knees, lips parted in a silent scream, but the ringing just got louder and closer and – 

 

"– you're not even fucking listening to me, are you? Man, I knew this was a goddamn mistake –"

Bucky's eyes flew open, gaze landing on Sam Wilson's stiff, frowning face. "Where am I?"

Wilson threw his hands up in the air. "Are you trying to be funny? Because I'm not laughing."

Bucky took quick stock – Wilson was in stealth combat gear: black pants, black henley, black boots – and when he glanced down at himself, he was dressed much the same way. They were both sitting across from each other on benches – the room was windowless, the walls painted a dull gray. Then he heard the steady hum of a diesel engine and the sound of waves crashing against metal. Boat, his brain supplied. They were on a cargo ship of some type, in the water.

"You back with me?" Wilson asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Sure," Bucky replied, scrubbing a metal hand over his face, and examining his fingers. The metal looked and felt the same as the last scenario or dream or whatever it was, like the Wakandan design. At least that seemed to be consistent now. 

"Look, I'm not any happier about this than you are, but Steve left pretty explicit instructions –"

Bucky snapped his head up. "Steve?" he asked, scooting forward eagerly on the bench. "Where is he? I need to talk to him."

If he could just _see_ Steve with his own eyes, he knew everything would be alright. Whatever was going on, he knew he could fix it if he just had Steve with him. He may not trust anything else, not even his own senses, but he trusted Steve.

Wilson's brows drew together in a thunderous frown. A muscle ticked in his jaw. "Are you trying to make me hit you, because I swear by all that is holy, I will drop kick you off this fucking boat into the goddamn ocean, Steve's last wishes or not."

"Last wishes?" No, no, _no_ , not this bullshit again. 

Bucky slammed his fist onto the wood with his flesh hand, and welcomed the clarity the pain provided. This was some elaborate joke or experiment gone wrong or, fuck, he had no idea. All he knew was Steve was _alive_ and out there somewhere, and finding him was the goddamn key to getting out of this mess.

"Yeah, and I know you've got some notion in your head about living up to...whatever paragon you think Steve was, but..." Wilson snorted once, derisive. "Man, you didn't even know him."

What the fuck was Wilson going on about? " _I_ didn't know him?" Bucky pointed to himself. "Are you fucking with me right now?"

Steve was the only thing he remembered with any sort of certainty. Whether short and skinny with bloodied fists raised like a dare, or as big as an ox and twice as strong and mowing down enemy combatants with surgical precision, Steve and his fire – his _fight_ – were the cornerstone to all of Bucky's memories about who he used to be. Steve was the connective tissue stitching together his entire life. For Wilson to even suggest – 

Wilson scooted almost completely off his bench, tension lining every inch of his body. "I was _there_ for him the last three years, every damn day. Which was more than you were, until it was too late for it to matter."

The words, sharp and true, hit their target with pinpoint accuracy. Shame and guilt churned in Bucky's gut, the same unholy mixture he'd been fighting ever since the day at the helicarrier. Since the day he'd fished Steve out of the Potomac and left him gasping for breath on the shore. He'd started running at that moment and never stopped. Never even bothered to turn around to see the damage he was leaving in his wake.

How could Steve want to be around him when he didn't even know himself? How could he have hoped to repair their friendship when the weight of all of the innocent people Bucky'd killed weighed down on him like an anchor, pulling him into the black? 

He'd stayed away because it was _safe_ , and he'd been right in doing so. What happened in Bucharest and Siberia just proved it. Wherever Bucky went, people got hurt. And the one person he never wanted to hurt was Steve. He'd done enough of that to last several lifetimes.

"You don't know a goddamn thing about me." It wasn't his best response, but he meant it with everything in him.

Wilson gave a deep sigh and dropped his elbows to his knees, his face haggard and drawn. "Look, whoever it was you thought was chasing you before Bucharest – whatever man it was you thought Steve was because of the way he used to be when you guys were taking down Nazis together – that wasn't the friend I knew. Things've changed since you two were kids."

"I know that." God knew Bucky wasn't remotely the same man he used to be, either – if he could even call himself a man these days. Most of the time, he felt like some hollowed-out shell, a faded carbon copy pretending to be a human being and doing a pretty miserable job of it.

Of course, Steve had to have those moments, too, even though he had a team and friends and had always been the stronger and more resilient of the two of them. Something else Bucky remembered vividly. Steve had always been the better man. Had always had the strength and tenacity of a hundred, even back when a stiff breeze could have knocked him over.

"Do you?" Wilson asked, skeptical. "Because I don't think you do. I think you've been so focused on how _you_ weren't the same that you never stopped to think the man you were running away from, he wasn't that guy either. But now that he's gone, oh, _now_ you care about his legacy and doing him proud." 

"His legacy?" Bucky asked, frowning when Wilson just snorted, unimpressed. He didn't give a shit about Steve's _legacy_. He never had. He wanted Steve whole and safe and happy, in whatever form that took.

"You spent two years avoiding the shit out of him –"

The hairs on Bucky's nape bristled. "That's not what I was –"

Wilson shut him up with a withering glance. "Oh, and now you're gonna add liar to the list?"

He reminded himself that punching Wilson wouldn't solve anything, even if it would give him immense personal satisfaction. Especially since this wasn't really happening. "I needed to figure myself out first."

"Mmhmm," Wilson replied, unimpressed. "And how did that work out for you? How'd that work out for Steve?"

"I don't owe you a goddamn explanation." His reasons for staying as far from Steve as possible were his own, and they weren't important anyway. The only thing that mattered was figuring out how to get back to the real world and Steve.

"No, you don't owe _me_ shit." Wilson gave him a contemptuous look. "Steve, on the other hand...you owed him way more than the scraps you gave him, and now that it's too late, now you want to try to step into his boots."

"I'm not trying to step into anything." He thought back to the earlier dreams or whatever they'd been – putting on Steve's uniform and how it had chafed against his skin, Fury calling him Cap and how wrong it had sounded and felt to have that title – and recoiled. He didn't _want_ the goddamn shield. He didn't want to be Captain America. That was Steve's job, and he was welcome to it. Bucky's job had always been to have Steve's back as his enforcer and second in command.

"Whatever, just..." Wilson waved him off. "Whatever you wanna tell yourself, knock yourself out. But just remember some of us are mourning the man he actually _was_ rather than some goddamn ghost."

"He's _not_ a ghost," Bucky replied, fervent, and barely had time to register the discordant, shrill ringing before the world went black again – 

***


	2. Chapter 2

_November 1st, 2016_

_Dear Buck,_

_Big day tomorrow. Doc's bringing you out of cryo for a few neural tests, and to run some tests on your new arm while you're awake and can give feedback, and I know you're not gonna believe this, but I'm actually kinda nervous. No, you didn't read that wrong. Me, nervous about seeing you. And yeah, I can hear you laughing already, but it's true. Been trying to distract myself the last couple of hours catching up on some old baseball games, and this brawl broke out in this Mets game for the stupidest reason – I'm talking, benches clearing, full on scrum going on right in the middle of the field, with fists flying, and everyone yelling and shoving each other, the works._

_It reminded me a little bit of, oh man, what game was that we were at, I know you'd know it – oh yeah, in '36. Dodgers vs Pirates, the game where Johnny Cooney knocked Billy Brubaker's front teeth loose. And someone in the row ahead of us said something and a fight broke out in the stands, too, and – you remember this, right – I fractured my elbow, and you got that massive shiner trying to pull me out of the crowd. Looking out for me like always, even when I didn't deserve it._

_Funny how the roles have reversed, I guess. Although I still think you're the one guiding me and looking out for me, just like you did when we were growing up. I can still hear your voice in my ear every time I put on the suit, and it's a comfort, in a way, to know that I'm still out there fighting for the right reasons. Because I know, if I ever stopped hearing your voice, it would mean I'm not on the side of the good guys._

_Anyway, I hope we'll have some time tomorrow to really catch up and talk, but I'm trying not to get my hopes up too much. Trying to manage my expectations, I guess. As much as I'd love it if you felt good enough to come out for good, I know that's not my call to make, and I gotta respect your wishes._

_But, hey, regardless, I'll see you in just a few hours. I can't wait to talk to you._

_Yours,  
Steve_

***

Bucky came to consciousness retching, and immediately rolled to his side to keep from choking to death. He shivered, the acid taste of bile coating his throat, and blinked white spots out of his eyes. It took a few shallow breaths, cataloguing every aching muscle, before he was finally able to lift his head.

He was back in the high-tech lab in Wakanda. His gaze flicked around the room – Dr. A'kane and King T'Challa were both there, studying a series of readouts on a brightly lit monitor. Bucky tried to make out the words, but they all just swam together in a white blur. 

King T'Challa turned, and regarded Bucky with a dispassionate gaze. "Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr. Barnes," he said.

Bucky just grunted, and flopped back onto the bio-bed, too weak to argue the point. 

If this was another fucked up hallucination or dream, he was ready to move on to the next one, because fuck this shit. Although, something about this one felt different. The weight of the air, maybe, or the brightness of the colors, all of his senses processing everything slightly faster, resonating at a slightly different frequency than the other times. 

Which meant...well, Bucky had no fucking clue what it meant. He'd been wiped and remade too many times to trust anything, including his own instincts. There was only one person he trusted to tell him the truth.

Steve. 

He had to get to _Steve_. 

He lurched up, then fell back to the bed, groaning, as the room spun dizzily around him. 

"Easy," Dr. A'kane murmured, her voice low and soothing. "Give yourself a moment to get your bearings."

Bucky coughed experimentally, but nothing else looked like it was coming up, so he concentrated on his breathing, and working through the dry burning in his throat. He looked down at himself – he was wearing the soft white tank top and sleep pants from when he'd originally gone under, and his left arm was the gleaming new one, the plates smoother, the design his own. His right hand was bare, no bruising, no discoloration of any kind.

After a minute, Bucky slowly pushed himself to a sitting position. Dr. A'kane pressed a glass filled with water into his hand, and he took a few sips. It tasted sharper, clearer, than the last time, soothed his ragged throat and his thirst in equal measure. 

"How are you feeling?" King T'Challa asked.

Bucky struggled to find a comfortable position. His center of gravity was slightly off, possibly from the lighter weight of his new arm. He didn't remember feeling off-balance earlier, either. Another subtle difference, another hint that maybe this might be...well, that it might be the actual physical world. 

"Like I've been on a weekend bender that lasted about a year," he finally replied, and took another sip of his water.

The king's lips twitched into something that might've been a smile. "An improvement from last time you were awake, then."

Bucky shrugged, and lolled his head back. "Last time?" he asked, then stopped himself from following up on that line of questioning. Last time wasn't the important thing. He only needed the answer to one question. "Where's Steve?"

If this was yet another attempt to try to fuck with his head, then whoever was doing this to him was about to get a lesson on just how dangerous the Winter Soldier could actually be.

The smile disappeared as the king rolled his shoulders back. "Perhaps another minute to orient yourself –"

"Your Majesty, _please_. Whatever's going on, I just...I need to know he's okay."

"T'Challa is fine as long as we're in private," he said, then let out the smallest of sighs. "As far as the Captain is concerned...he's alive and here at the palace."

Bucky frowned, even as he wanted to sag in relief. T'Challa wasn't trying to convince him Steve was missing or dead or had never existed, which was a good start. Already, this was way more promising than the last few times. "I'm sensing a but," Bucky said. "What happened?"

"He was injured. In a manner of speaking. There was..." T'Challa paused, as if searching for the right word. "An incident. But we can discuss the particulars of his situation after you've had a chance to orient yourself."

An incident? What the fuck did that mean? "Is he okay or not?" Bucky pressed, his head still spinning, but not as badly now. And the high-pitched ringing in his ears was gone, the silence almost as deafening. But its absence was another weight tethering him to the here and now, another strand binding him to the tangibility of the present. 

Bucky swung his feet to the floor and tested putting his weight on his legs. A little unsteady, but he'd worked through worse. And there was no way he was just going to sit here without anyone telling him what the hell was going on with Steve. "Why don't you tell me now?"

Dr. A'kane started towards him. "Mr. Barnes, I don't recommend –"

Bucky waved her off and fully stood, breathing through the disorientation until he felt like he had a handle on his balance. "I'm good," he said, praying he wasn't about to prove himself a liar by falling on his face. He'd run successful missions in far worse shape than this. All he had to do was power through it. "Where is he?"

"Mr. Barnes, it really would be best if –"

"I want to see him," Bucky said, smoothly interrupting Dr. A'kane's objection. As much as he had initially trusted these people with his life and mental well-being, something supremely fucked up was going on, and he didn't have anyone he could rely on to help him solve the puzzle. He was on his own. 

And if Steve been incapacitated in any way, then it fell to Bucky to defend him, just like he'd done their entire lives.

"Look, either someone takes me to him or I'll just have to find him on my own," he added, making his case directly to T'Challa. " _Please_ , you gotta let me see him." The plea stuck like a craw in his throat, but he knew any threat he made would be an empty one. He was, like it or not, completely at the king's mercy for the moment.

For a moment, T'Challa didn't move. Then he sighed, and inclined his head. "As you wish," he said, and gestured at the door. "If you would follow me..."

Just the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other took every bit of motor skill Bucky currently possessed, but he wasn't about to ask T'Challa to slow down or give him a chance to change his mind. They turned down one hallway and into another in silence, a member of T'Challa's protection detail – the Dora Milaje, Bucky remembered – following a step behind. Bucky didn't recognize this part of the palace, but admittedly, he hadn't been much interested in the grand tour before he'd gone under. He'd been far too preoccupied with making sure he could never be turned into a weapon again.

When they got to a set of heavily reinforced doors, guarded by two formidable looking women who were dressed similarly to the king's bodyguard, T'Challa paused with his hand over the keypad. "You are certain about this?" he quietly asked. "We do not have to do this now."

"Yeah, we do," Bucky said, and squared his shoulders. Steve had made Bucky a promise to be there when Bucky woke up, and Steve's word was as unbreakable as his loyalty. So whatever was going on, it couldn't be good. 

But, as long as Steve was alive, Bucky would find a way to deal with it.

T'Challa keyed them in the room. It looked like another lab of some sort – there were several scientists in white coats conferring around a group of monitors – but all of Bucky's attention was focused on the figure sitting on a cot on the other side of a shimmering force field.

He let out a slow, even breath. Steve was here. Alive and whole and as absurdly buff and perfect and _healthy_ as ever. Jesus, but he was a sight for sore eyes.

He was dressed in plain gray sweats and a matching t-shirt, his feet bare, and his head was bowed as if in prayer. Bucky raked his gaze across every part of Steve he could see, but outwardly, he looked exactly the same as he had the last time Bucky'd seen him. He wondered why Steve was behind a force field, if he was under quarantine for some reason. Was he contagious? Wasn't the serum supposed to prevent him from getting sick?

Bucky raised a hand in an aborted greeting. "Hey, Steve, it's me."

There was no reaction. Steve didn't lift his head or smile or even twitch to show he was aware Bucky'd spoken. Which was...okay, yeah, he didn't blame Steve for still being pissed off that Bucky had chosen cryo over other treatment options, but he'd thought they'd moved past that. Steve wasn't the brooding type. If he was mad at you, you fucking knew about it. They'd gotten into more than one shouting match in the past, fights Bucky remembered vividly.

He wasn't used to Steve _ignoring_ him.

Bucky stepped even closer, felt the crackling energy of the force field at his fingertips. "Steve, buddy, can you hear me?" 

Once again, Steve stayed silent and terrifyingly still. This wasn't right. This wasn't right at all. This was very fucking wrong – but there wasn't any ringing in his ears, and the air, slightly stale but pure, sat heavy in his lungs. Which meant...

No, this _couldn't_ be real. This was another simulation or test or _something_.

"Steve, what's going on?" he asked, beseeching now. "C'mon, man, just tell me you're okay." 

"He cannot hear you," T'Challa quietly said, coming to stand beside him. 

Bucky turned, sure his panic had to be showing on his face. "What the hell happened to him? _Why_ can't he hear me? Why won't he look at me?"

The Steve he remembered was never that still, never that silent. He was constantly in motion, a kinetic force that pulled everyone around him into his center of gravity, Bucky most of all. Steve was the goddamn sun, and Bucky couldn't remember a time when he hadn't been in orbit around him, content to be a satellite basking in Steve's radiance. 

That was...whoever that was, it wasn't Bucky's Steve. And why the hell was he behind a force field and a locked, guarded door?

"That is a matter best discussed in private," T'Challa said, and motioned at the door again. "Come."

He glanced at Steve, who didn't even seem to be aware anyone else was in the room, let alone discussing him. As loathe as Bucky was to let Steve out of his sight, he knew he wasn't going to get any answers unless he followed T'Challa's instructions.

He waited for the ringing to start, for the sound that would signal this was just another dream, but there was only the beeping of the monitors and the humming of the force field.

"Mr. Barnes?"

"Yeah, fine," he finally said. And, with another final look at Steve, followed T'Challa back down the hall.

***

_August 19th, 2016_

_Dear Buck,_

_You're not gonna believe this, but I helped deliver a baby today. Well, helped is a strong word, it was more just being an extra set of hands, but it was still pretty intense. But, thankfully, there weren't any complications, and Wakanda gained a brand new, healthy, baby girl._

_I mean, it wasn't under the same circumstances when you and Gabe did it back in France – no one was shooting at me – but it was humbling all the same. Watching someone come into the world, everything brand new and open, no limits, only possibility. Kinda reaffirms one's faith in humanity, and I guess it's not a stretch to say I needed that reminder._

_I guess I'm burying the lede a little bit, sorry. I've been going out with Dr. Balana – I don't know if you met her, but she's one of the most prominent doctors in the country – to some of the remote villages in the mountains to assess what they might need in the way of supplies or necessities. Even a country as advanced as Wakanda's still has areas where people need aid. Anyway, we were in N'Jadaka Village when the village leader went into labor, and asked if Dr. Balana would stay to oversee the delivery. And I guess the doc figured, since Monty gave us all medic training back during the war and I kept up with it when I was working with SHIELD, I could be of some use._

_I know how weird it's going to sound, but I actually had a good time. It's not always easy to see the immediate results of some of the work we do and the good we do, but this was...something tangible, I guess. Something real. There's a brand-new, beautiful life in this world, with a healthy mother and a doting father, and everyone around her invested in making sure she grows up to be strong and loving and that she has every advantage to be whatever she wants to be. It made me remember why I wanted to be part of Project Rebirth in the first place, and my promise to Doc Erskine. ~~Maybe I can do something with~~_

_Anyway, I'll give you more detail when I get back to the palace. Dr. A'kane says you seem to respond well to the sound of my voice – something about your brainwave patterns smoothing out whenever I'm around – so I'll pull up a chair and give you the full story. In the meantime, I've got more rounds to make, so I should probably get to it._

_I'll talk to you soon._

_Yours,  
Steve_

***

"Wait here," T'Challa instructed his bodyguard, and waited for her short nod before gesturing at Bucky. "After you, Mr. Barnes."

Bucky stepped into a conference room of some type and waited for T'Challa to shut the door behind him before speaking. "Do you want to fill me in on what's going on?" he asked. "How long's he been like that?" 

How long had Steve been at the mercy of these strangers, far too silent and _far_ too still, a prisoner trapped behind a force field and guarded by the famed and feared Dora Milaje, while Bucky had slept on, oblivious to Steve's plight? How the fuck could Bucky not have known Steve needed him?

"Three days," T'Challa replied.

"Three _days_ ," Bucky repeated, aghast. "Why the hell did you wait so long to wake me up?"

"As I understand it, Dr. A'kane and her team have tried several times to pull you out." T'Challa took a seat, unfazed by Bucky's tone. "Apparently, you were remarkably resistant to their efforts until today."

"What?" That didn't make any sense. He didn't remember anyone trying to wake him up. Unless _that_ was what all the weird dreams or hallucinations or whatever were about? But that didn't sound right, either. None of this sounded right.

"It's been six months," T'Challa continued, like that explained anything.

"Six months since what?" Bucky asked, even more confused.

"Since the last time you were out of cryo."

Which meant...what, exactly? "Sorry, I'm not following."

T'Challa nodded, like he expected the answer. "What's the last thing you remember?" 

Bucky blinked, nonplussed. "About the last time I was out? Uh, talking to Steve. Doc was going through some neural tests, and, uh, doing a few simple reaction tests on the new arm –" He lifted it, the metal gleaming under the harsh fluorescent light, lightweight, but still _solid_ "– and Steve and I were laughing over some joke...and then...it's a blank."

He didn't remember going back under, saying goodbye to Steve, anyone giving him a timetable for pulling him back out of cryo...nothing. Just looking into Steve's too-tired, too-blue eyes and thinking Steve should think about going into cryo himself, if only to get some rest. 

"Interesting," T'Challa mused, stroking long fingers over his chin. "It would seem my sister was right."

"Your sister?" Bucky didn't even know T'Challa _had_ a sister. Or what she had to do with anything – or with _any_ of this. "What does the last time I was awake have to do with the way Steve's acting now? Or with why it took three _days_ to wake me up."

T'Challa spread his hands out on the table. "That is a complicated question, Mr. Barnes."

Bucky pulled out a chair and sat, folding his own hands in front of him. "It's just Bucky. And I'm awake now. So maybe you could start at the top." 

He may owe this man his life and his freedom, but he wasn't letting T'Challa leave this room until he had answers to all of his questions. 

T'Challa's face, normally regal and impassive, was creased with frown lines. Bucky wondered if the stress was from his duties as Wakanda's king or something else. For all that T'Challa had generously offered his country as a sanctuary for Steve and the rest of his team, there was still a lot Bucky didn't know about the other man, or anything at all about the politics of Wakanda or how it was ruled. Something he should brush up on and learn more about now that he was awake. Providing he actually _was_ awake.

"Almost seven weeks ago," T'Challa began, "the Captain and Ms. Romanov were on a mission in Cameroon, when the Captain went missing –"

"Missing? Seven weeks ago?" Almost two months, _Jesus_ , and no one had pulled him out to search for him _then_? His entire _job_ during the War had been to have Steve's back. Their entire friendship growing up had been predicated on Steve starting fights and Bucky finishing them if Steve couldn't. 

But no one in this century even knew that. They all thought him a liability. As far as everyone knew, he was a dangerous criminal, an unhinged weapon. A puppet whose strings could be pulled by anyone using the right combination of words. 

Of course they hadn't woken him up. They didn't know that Steve was the one person who could always bring Bucky back to himself – because Bucky'd never told them. Never told _Steve_ that he was the only one who’d made Bucky remember the person he was. He'd never told Steve...shit, he hadn't told Steve anything. Which was the entire sorry problem in a nutshell.

T'Challa inclined his head, oblivious to Bucky's racing thoughts. "It took six weeks before Ms. Romanov and Mr. Wilson found him, in an abandoned Hydra facility in Senegal, and brought him here. His physical injuries were extensive, but he recovered from those without any complications. In fact, his physical recovery has been astonishing," he said. "The serum that flows through his veins is beyond remarkable. Not even my most renowned scientists have encountered anything like its powers."

"Okay, so physically, he's peachy. But what about...?" Bucky mimed zipping his lips shut.

"That is the larger question. Since Ms. Romanov and Mr. Wilson found him, the Captain hasn't uttered a word or acted like he's aware of his surroundings or knows who or where he is."

Bucky stilled, waiting for the ringing in his ears to start, but try as he might, he could only hear their own breaths and the low hum of the A/C kicking in. "I'm sorry," he said, "could you...repeat that?"

"Which part?"

"The part where any of this makes any fucking sense."

This had to be a test, maybe related to the dreams or whatever they were, but he was okay now, he felt _fine_. Any second now, Steve would walk through the door with one of his small, beautiful and heartbreakingly sincere smiles, and apologize for scaring the shit out of him with his little stunt, then catch him up on everything he'd missed. Any second now, Steve would stride up to him and wrap him in one of his bone-crushingly long hugs, and Bucky's tilting world would right itself.

"I understand that you might be a little disoriented," T'Challa started, softening his tone, his shoulders rounded now, body language open, a gesture clearly meant to put Bucky at ease. He found himself relaxing before he was even aware he'd done it.

"I'm not disoriented, I'm just trying to figure out what's going on," he countered, drumming metal fingers on the gleaming white surface of the table. Everything in the room was pristine and neutral, taupe and ivory and sandalwood, from the art on the walls to the table and chairs. Boring and bland and yet, still with a weight to it that screamed _real, this is real, this is actually happening_. But it couldn't be happening. It just couldn't. 

Any _second_ now, Steve would come barreling in through the door without even waiting to knock, big and bold and twice as beautiful, taking up all of the oxygen in the room, and he'd smile that small, wry smile of his Bucky's way and he'd pull Bucky into those strong, safe arms, welcoming him back like he'd _promised_ – 

"Right now, the Steve Rogers you knew is gone," T'Challa said, popping the illusion as effectively as popping a balloon. "And no one has been able to discern how to bring him back."

 _The Steve Rogers you knew is gone_. 

This _had_ to be another test. When he'd been Hydra's, they'd run him through any number of scenarios to check his reflexes and mental acuity. Perhaps the Wakandans were taking a page from that same book. They were probably scanning his vital signs at this very moment, searching for any changes of breathing or heart rate or brainwave patterns. Some elaborate method of making sure they'd gotten rid of all of his triggers, perhaps, or that he wouldn't snap under stress and revert back to Winter Soldier mode.

He flattened his hand on the table, focused on the shiny reflective surface of the metal until it started to blur around the edges. There was only one objective here. The calmer he stayed, the faster he'd get through this, and the faster he'd get to see Steve again. Simple enough.

"You said it was a fact-finding mission. Fact-finding what?" Bucky asked, pushing every bit of hard-won calm into his voice. "And who captured him?"

"According to Ms. Romanov, a group loyal to Sinthea Schmidt."

"Sinthea Schmidt," Bucky repeated, mad at himself that he hadn't pieced it together on his own. Almost every one of his hallucinations or dreams had revolved around finding her. That had to be relevant somehow. "But I thought...she's dead. Zemo killed her."

"He did," T'Challa confirmed. "But, as I said, she still has a group loyal to her, who've made it their mission to perfect her methods of torture and mental manipulation, and to continue Hydra's original mission to remake the world in its image."

Fuck. _Fuck_. How the hell had he slept through this? He'd seen firsthand what Sinthea's work looked like, and the damage it had wrought. And yet, for weeks, Steve had been fighting a battle where he'd needed backup more than ever, and Bucky hadn't even been in the same country.

"And that's...that's what you think is going on with Steve? They've..." _broken_ "tortured him?"

"Yes." T'Challa didn't say it unkindly, but Bucky flinched all the same.

"But why?" he pressed. What could they possibly have wanted with Steve? And why leave him alive? It didn't make any sense, unless there was some ulterior motive at play.

"Unfortunately we do not know," T'Challa replied. "Perhaps for what he represents or to test the serum or another reason altogether."

"I could help," Bucky offered, leaning in. "I mean, I...back when I was the Winter Soldier, I worked with Sinthea. I probably know more about her methods than anyone outside her followers. I could...help in trying to figure out what's going on with Steve."

T'Challa's lips pursed in thought. "Such intel might prove valuable. I'll see to it that Shuri is informed of your desire to assist. She may have some questions for you."

Shuri...probably the lead person in charge of Steve's recovery, Bucky thought. And while this Shuri was questioning him on what he knew about Sinthea, he'd be questioning her and her team right back on what they'd been doing to help Steve. He was sure everyone in that room all had Steve's best interests at heart, but Bucky didn't _know_ them. He hadn't vetted them or talked to them to determine their threat level for himself. Hydra's operation may have been fractured, but their numbers were still legion, and they could blend in anywhere. Even in a country as hard to infiltrate as Wakanda.

"Um, you mentioned it took three days to bring me out of cryo. Did...were you able to tell if I was...dreaming? Were you guys running any tests?"

"Dreaming?" T'Challa repeated, with a confused tilt to his head. "Tests?"

"Yeah, it's..." Bucky shifted in his chair. What if he started talking and the king just thought he was crazy and threw him back in cryo before he could help Steve? But it was a risk he had to take; he had to trust that T'Challa was on his side. On Steve's side. "Okay, look, I know this sounds nuts, but I've been having these...really fucking vivid...like, too real to be dreams, sort of...only everything was _wrong_ in them, because Steve was always either missing or dead."

T'Challa's eyebrows climbed higher and higher on his forehead. "That does sound...troubling."

"So, it wasn't the doc or anyone else trying, I don't know, some weird method of extracting the trigger words or something?" It was the only explanation he could think of. He _had_ to have had them for a reason. They were too clear, even now, too sharp, for them to have been simple dreams. Unless he was still having them, of course.

No, he couldn't start down that road. He'd drive himself even more nuts if he tried. He had to treat this as real for the time being.

"Not as far as I'm aware, but I haven't been keeping up to date on all of the particulars of your treatment, I'm sorry."

"No, jeez, don't be, you've got a country to run, that's..." He shrugged and offered a half-smile. "I'll talk to Doc about it," he said. "Has there been any progress on getting rid of them?"

"Your trigger words?" T'Challa asked, and nodded when Bucky did. "Some, but, from the briefings I've gotten, it hasn't been as swift as Dr. A'kane would like."

Not as swift. That meant _some_ progress, right? So why didn't the king look more pleased? "Meaning?" Bucky asked.

"Meaning she was able to isolate several of the brainwave patterns that were used to disrupt your neural inputs, but she can't be certain she's gotten all of them, or that there aren't more back door triggers," T'Challa explained. "I'm sorry I do not have better news."

Bucky heard what T'Challa wasn't saying – the words were still inside his brain like a ticking time bomb. Hydra loved their failsafes, and with as much time and money as they'd poured into making Bucky their perfect weapon, they wouldn’t have let their precious asset go without several emergency back-ups, just in case. 

The thought rankled, acid racing like poison through his veins, but he couldn't afford to let it distract him. So be it. He'd had the words inside him for decades – and he was beginning to think that maybe he always would. It was time to stop running from the problem, and hoping it would fix itself. That clearly hadn't worked.

"I'll deal with it," he replied, determined. "Steve needs me right now. That's the important thing."

T'Challa gave him a thoughtful look. "Dr. A'kane would need to clear you before I allow you to spend any unsupervised time with the Captain."

They still didn't trust him. Fair enough. He couldn't say it wasn't without reason. And if it took answering some questions or suffering through a few more tests to see Steve again, he'd do it. Whatever got him back to Steve's side the fastest. "I understand."

If T'Challa noticed the distinct lack of enthusiasm in the response, he was kind enough not to mention it. "In the meantime, I will have someone show you to a room where you can freshen up."

He wanted to protest – Steve needed him a lot more than he needed a shower – but he bit down on the retort. His blood might be singing an urgent song of _SteveneedtoseeSteve_ , but he had to treat this as a mission. Which meant being in peak condition physically and mentally. And that also meant gathering all of the available intel he could, and not turning down his host's hospitality. 

"Thanks." Bucky summoned a smile. "That'd be...I mean, whatever debt it is you think you owe –"

T'Challa waved him off. "You are a guest in my home, and the Captain has become someone whose friendship I value. And there is no debt in friendship." He stood, then inclined his head. "Until our next meeting, Mr. Barnes," he said, then left the room.

***


	3. Chapter 3

_February 9th, 2017_

_Dear Buck,_

_Sorry it's...well, that it's been a few months since the last letter. I guess I just didn't know what to say. Wanda mentioned last time she saw you that you were worried about me or seemed sad about me or something? I'm still not real sure how it is that the two of you are able to communicate or if it's just a general feeling or vibe she's able to get from you – well, anyway. She said you were concerned._

_And you shouldn't be. You shouldn't be worried about me when you've got your own recovery to focus on. And you – you have every reason to be mad at me still or to not want anything to do with me after what happened last time, but I guess that's why you've always been one of the best men I ever knew. You always forgave me, even when I didn't deserve it._

_Things've been busy – Sam and I've been out in the field a lot on missions for T'Challa, and a few fact-finding missions related to your training as the Winter Soldier. We ran into Nat in India about a month ago, and it was good to see her again. She's been working on a couple of new leads related to a new player trying to fill the vacuum Hydra left – she wouldn't give names or too many details, but she said she's working with a few people she trusts, and that's good enough for me. I offered my services if she needs them, so we'll see if she takes me up on it. I hope she does. I've missed working with her._

_Clint and Scott are still here too, although I finally convinced Clint to go home for a little while to see his family. I know it's tough for him not being around them – but I know it's dangerous for everyone as long as Ross is still hell bent on locking all of us away. There hasn't been much leeway yet on that front – we're still all wanted by the UN and several other individual governments to boot, the US included. There's been a lot of debate back in the States, I guess, at least about me. Sam tells me the country's pretty divided when it comes to whether or not I should face charges or get a pardon. Not that I care – I wouldn't accept a pardon unless you got the same one._

_As for Tony, well, I think he's softening a little bit, but he's still not ready. At least, not where you and me are concerned. But, I think maybe I can get him to try to use his influence to get the charges dropped against Sam, Clint and Scott. Wanda's still, well, they think she's like Banner. Unstable. Dangerous. Which couldn't be further from the truth._

_I just wish the world could see her as she truly is. A scared kid with incredible potential to do some real good in this world. I wish the world could see a lot of things as clearly as I do some days._

_I'll try to write more often, but I feel like I'm running out of things to say._

_Yours,  
Steve_

***

A few moments after T'Challa departed, one of the household staff led Bucky through another series of hallways and doors into a sparsely, but tastefully, furnished bedroom suite. Bucky shut the door behind him and gave himself a moment to sag against the wood. Gave himself a moment to come to terms with everything T'Challa had told him.

He wasn't cured. The triggers and code words inside him that had made him turn against Steve, against every moral value his parents had instilled in him, might still be in inside his fucking head. They could still be crouched like a tiger in the dark recesses of his mind, only waiting for the right person to put all the deadly pieces together the way Zemo had. He was still a goddamn weapon waiting for the right command.

But it didn't matter. If all of the hallucinations or dreams or whatever they'd been had taught him anything, it was that he'd rather have an imperfect, fractured reality where he and Steve were together, than some crazy sanitized version of reality where he was cured, but didn't have Steve in it at all. Even if he and Steve couldn't be near each other because of safety concerns, the world – Bucky's world – was a much better place for having Steve in it.

Steve was his priority. His safety, his recovery, those were the only important things in his world.

This was, of course, assuming he could trust that any of this was even real. Sure, it _felt_ different, but how could he possibly know? How could he trust anything he saw or heard or felt? His mind had been wiped so many times, his brain experimented on, his emotions toyed with – he'd been tortured and lied to and manipulated by masters until he'd been willing to murder his best friend in cold blood, the one person who meant more to him than anyone else in the world. 

What if this _was_ just another test? What if Hydra had managed to find him after all, and they were combing through his head, searching for his weaknesses? What if he was leading them directly to Steve, putting him back in harm's way, when the only thing he'd ever wanted to do was keep Steve safe –

 _Breathe_.

The voice in his head – soft yet authoritative – snapped him back into himself. He sucked in one shaky breath, then another, unclenched his fists slowly, the nails of his right hand leaving red crescent marks on his palm. 

Maybe this was a test; maybe it wasn't actually happening. Maybe he was still in his cryo chamber, or maybe he'd never even made it out of the bank vault in D.C., and everything that had happened to him over the last few years was all a product of his fevered imagination and his most desperate wishes. He couldn't afford the luxury of second-guessing himself, of trying to pick through the tattered remnants of his mind to determine if this was a dream or a hallucination. 

Real or not, Steve needed him, and saving Steve was all that mattered. A primary mission that overrode every other parameter. That was where he needed to place his energy and focus, not on anything else.

Bucky took the longest, hottest shower he could, scrubbed over every inch of his body twice, and dressed in the clothes he found in the drawers – jogging pants, a black tee, and a soft gray hoodie, comfortable and nondescript, a little big, but perfect for his needs. No shoes, which was a concern, but he could steal a pair from someone if needed. It wouldn't be the first time.

There was a tray of food also waiting for him – a plain chicken breast and some white rice and broccoli. Plenty of protein and nutrients, but easy enough on his system that none of it would come back up. Even as fast as his metabolism worked, he knew he'd need a couple of days to be fully up to speed. 

Once he'd eaten, he gave half a thought to waiting around for someone to come get him and take him to Dr. A'kane, but he almost immediately dismissed it. He may have been the perfectly obedient soldier at one time, but he wasn't that man anymore. These days, the only orders he was going to follow would either be his own or Steve's. And T'Challa hadn't forbidden him from exploring the palace or the grounds, which meant he could at least do some recon, get the lay of the land, just in case.

But when he opened the door, Wanda Maximoff was standing at the threshold. One of her hands was poised up in the air as if to knock. In the other, she was holding a beat-up looking journal.

She looked good – maybe a little tired, but like she'd finally gotten a chance to rest. There was still something about her that made the hairs on his arm stand on end, like standing too close to a live wire, though he’d never gotten the sense that she was dangerous. In fact, the way she acted reminded Bucky of Steve, every movement coiled and tightly controlled. Like someone who was acutely aware of the damage they could do, but had made a conscious decision not to.

"Did the doc send you to come fetch me?" he asked. 

"No, I heard you were awake and I...I wanted to see how you were doing," she said, and handed him the journal. "And to give you this."

"What is it?" he asked, taking it as he held the door open wider so she could step inside. Not that he particularly wanted to entertain guests, but a few minutes wouldn't hurt. Besides, Steve considered her a friend, and her assistance had been invaluable in Leipzig.

She smiled as she walked into the room. "See for yourself."

He flipped the cover open, and frowned at the neat loops and slants of an all-too-familiar handwriting. "Why are you giving me Steve's notebook?"

"It's yours," she told him. "They're letters Steve wrote to you."

"Oh." He looked down at the journal, more than a little confused. Why give this to him now? "From back during the War or something?" 

"No, from when you were in cryo," Wanda said, folding her hands in front of her as she cocked her head, scrutinizing him from behind kohl-rimmed eyes. "You've been to see him?"

He nodded, but didn't look up from the journal. Couldn't drag his gaze away from Steve's handwriting, and memories of passing notes back and forth to each other in school, of letters Steve had written to him when he'd been in Basic, then again at the front. His breath shorted out, every muscle tensing, the metal plates of his new arm shifting as his fingers closed into a fist. 

What if he was holding the last remnant of _his_ Steve, the one he'd held so close to his heart during his years on the run. What if this notebook, with whatever secrets and stories it held, was his last link to his best friend, his family, the one person he'd been counting on to _be_ there for him when he woke up? What if all of those scenarios he'd dreamed up when he'd been in cryo had been a premonition, a glimpse into a terrible future where all he'd have of Steve would be some scrawled lines on a page?

He had to clear his throat twice before he could find his voice. "Is he still...in there? Can you tell?"

"It's difficult to say," she replied, quietly, the sympathy in her voice unmistakable. "I'm no doctor or neuroscientist, but it does appear – to me, at least – that his core being...his memories...they're still there, just buried. And so far, nothing's brought them to the surface. Brought _him_ to the surface."

So, Steve _was_ still in there, somewhere, lost in his own head. Just like Bucky had been when he'd been under Hydra's control. He let out a breath, looser this time. Wanda's reply was encouraging, in a twisted way. If Bucky'd managed to break out of it – out of decades of conditioning and torture and manipulation – then Steve could do it. Steve had always been the far stronger of the two of them, more resilient than anyone Bucky'd ever known.

"So, you can't just whammy him or whatever to fix him, I guess," he said, with a hopeful look.

She smiled, showing off twin dimples. "No, it's not that simple."

He figured. If it had been that easy, Steve would already be on his way to recovery. He would have been in the room when Bucky'd woken up, and they'd be together. "Worth a shot, I guess," he said, then frowned as another thought came to him. "Were you there the last time I was awake?"

"Six months ago?" She gestured at his left arm. "When you were brought out for your tests?"

"Yeah. I mean, it's all fuzzy, but I get the feeling something bad happened and I just can't remember it." What had happened that day? Why had T'Challa brought it up if it wasn't relevant to Steve's situation? Why couldn't he remember anything beyond Steve's grateful, tired smile and the happiness he'd felt at being able to see Steve and talk to him, if only for a few minutes. The way Steve's arms had felt around him, the laughter they'd both shared before everything went black. "Is whatever happened why I wasn't brought out to help search for Steve when he went missing?"

She shook her head. "I can't answer that, I'm sorry. That's something you'll have to talk over with Dr. A'kane or the King."

"Figures," Bucky muttered, then tapped at the cover of the notebook. "Thank you. For, um, bringing this over to me." 

He couldn't explain why he felt so comfortable around her. Why her presence felt so unthreatening, in spite of what he knew she was capable of. She was the most powerful individual he'd ever met, possessed more abilities than he'd ever understand, and yet, when he looked at her, all he saw was a teenage girl weighed down with far too much tragedy and far too much responsibility. 

He wondered if what dream-Sam-Wilson had told him was true. If Wanda was someone Bucky could turn to, if perhaps they could help each other navigate their respective realities. To his surprise, the thought of it was...comforting. Even without Steve by his side, Bucky still wasn't alone in this strange, new world.

She lifted slender shoulders, the look on her face impossible to decipher. "He was very clear in his instructions that if he was not around to greet you when you came out of cryo, I was to give it to you," she said. "It was his way – how did he put it – of staying in touch. Coping with your absence, I believe, is how Sam phrased it."

"Fuck, yeah, okay." Way to pile on the guilt, Rogers. God knew he had enough of it to deal with, the twisting sickness weighing him down and pulling him under, without Steve writing him letters, like Bucky was off on some assignment instead of retreating like a coward behind an array of monitors and a pane of bulletproof glass. 

"In his own way, he was trying to communicate with you," she continued, like she wasn't fully aware her every word was another dagger strike aimed right at his heart. "He hasn't had an easy time of it since...well, from what I understand, since he was pulled out of the plane."

"Try his whole life." Bucky looked back down at the journal. "He hasn't been able to catch a break from the day he was born."

She studied him again, her lips turning down. "I don't think he would see it that way."

"That's because he's an idiot." Bucky'd spent the better part of two years before Bucharest wrestling with his memories, trying to remember who he used to be, who Steve used to be, and the very first thing that came back to him where Steve was concerned – besides Steve's stubbornness in the face of impossible odds – was Steve's insistence that everything was fine, even when it wasn't. Steve was the type of person who'd see his house on fire and worry about the firefighters putting out the blaze and how it might affect _their_ night over his own personal loss or safety. Self-sacrificing and self-effacing right down to his core.

Wanda offered a ghost of a smile. "What is it about boys and insulting each other as a means of showing affection?"

"Beats me." He tapped the journal against his palm, and flipped open the cover again, thumbing through a few pages at random. He didn't _want_ to see whatever it was Steve had written. He didn't have the right to Steve's thoughts, even if they were meant for him, not when he'd done nothing to warrant the trust or connection. Steve had tried, so many times, to extend his hand in friendship, tried every way he knew to let Bucky know he still cared, and every single time, Bucky'd only given back the bare minimum. Had held the largest parts of himself close to the vest, just in case he'd needed to run again. 

But the second he saw his name – _his_ name, the one he'd fought tooth and nail for over two years to reclaim for himself – in Steve's looping, gorgeously messy scrawl, he couldn't stop himself from reading further.

And, with every word, his fractured heart splintered even further in his chest.

***

_October 4th, 2016_

_Dear Buck,_

_I woke up today craving your mom's special bologna casserole, and my mom's lemon pound cake. I don't remember why I was even dreaming about them, but I couldn't stop thinking about the taste of them all day. Now you know me, I'm not so much one for the culinary pursuits or anything close to it, but it didn't stop me from trying my hand at recreating both recipes._

_And, I gotta be honest with you, they were both missing something. And no, before you say anything, it wasn't the bacon in the casserole or the orange peel in the pound cake – those I remembered. But neither tasted quite the same as I remember. I mean, they were alright – at least Wanda and Sam seemed to enjoy them, although they could have both just been being polite. But if you were here – I mean, here here – I bet you could've told me what they needed. You always paid a lot more attention when our moms were cooking than I ever did. But then, that was you all over – always paying attention to everyone around you, always looking out for the rest of us. It had to have been a burden, but you never made it seem like it was. Or that I was one, at any rate._

_Do you still like to cook? Your kitchen in Bucharest looked well-used, so I like to think you do. I'm not sure if I ever told you – things were pretty chaotic, so maybe I didn't – but I am so sorry that you lost that. Lost your home and your safe place and whatever life you'd managed to build for yourself in Romania. I never would have asked you to give any of that up. Too much was taken from you already._

_You know – well, I hope you know, but I'm telling you anyway – when they get rid of the triggers and you wake up free and clear, you don't have to stick around. You don't owe anyone anything. Not even me. Especially not me. Just, if you do decide to strike out on your own, I hope you'll at least stay in touch. You don't have to, of course, but it'd be nice to hear from you every once in awhile._

_I wish I could take a page from your book and do that. Just disappear for a little while. But I knew what I was getting myself into when I accepted Erskine's offer for the serum, so I have to accept all of the responsibilities that come with it. I may not have the Captain America title anymore, or the shield, but I still believe I can use my gifts to help people. To make the world a safer place. And if that means I don't get time off, then that's the price I have to pay, and I've made my peace with it. Which, I guess, says it all._

_Your new arm looks amazing, by the way. I can't wait for you to see it and to run all of the cognitive and spatial tests on it. I think you'll be pleased. The vibranium alloy is lighter and has even greater flexibility than your old arm. I know you were concerned about it, but you've got nothing to worry about. T'Challa has his sister on the job, which is saying something. The tech here is out of this world, and the scientists are all top notch, but she's a true prodigy. T'Challa says she's designed all of his suits personally, so I couldn't ask for anyone better to be in charge of your care._

_Well, it's getting kinda late, so I think I might check in on you before heading to bed. Two more chapters to go, and then we'll be on to Prisoner of Azkaban, which I hear is the best one of the series. Guess we'll find out._

_I'll see you soon._

_Yours,  
Steve_

***

Bucky shut the notebook, swiping impatiently at the tears that had started to blur his vision halfway through the first paragraph. God, how could he have gotten everything so spectacularly wrong? All this time, he'd been running as far as he could away from Steve, certain that Steve only wanted to be around him because of what Bucky symbolized – the past, Steve's youth, old friends and family he'd never get back – rather than the broken, lost shell of a person Bucky actually was. But, in reality, Steve had always seen Bucky exactly for who he was now – the flawed man trying to make things right – and wanted to get to know him anyway. 

Which was more than what Bucky had done. Everything he'd accused Steve of had, in reality, been him. Steve had been a symbol of _Bucky's_ own failure, of his own past, not a person with his own thoughts and feelings and agency. The thought rankled as much as it shamed him. 

"We were supposed to go home." He could hear how his voice was quivering, but forced himself to keep going. Finally giving voice to the nameless _thing_ he'd tried so hard to shove back into its box. That nagging sense of wrongness that had followed him even into cryo and had stayed with him, even when his brain had been trying to convince him that he didn't need Steve at all. That this was simply another trick to keep him off-balance, when deep down, he'd known better. He _knew_ this was real.

"That was the goddamn bargain we made before we formed the Howlies," he continued, softer now. Like he was back in the confessional booth of St. Ignatius. "I looked out for him when we were kids and he saved me in Azzano and...we were supposed to save each _other_ during the War and come home _together_ and maybe finally be... But, I couldn't –" His voice broke. "I couldn't –"

"But you did." Wanda's hands were gentle on his, stilling the tiny tremors that rippled under his skin. "You saved him when the helicarriers fell and he saved you in Siberia, and now it's your turn again and after that, perhaps it's time you both take a break and learn to just _be_."

A break. If only things were that simple. He'd had a debt to pay, and he'd shirked it, ran as far as he could, and Steve – his bright, beautiful Steve – was suffering, a prisoner inside his own head, as a result. If Bucky'd been here instead of trying to renege on their bargain, maybe Steve would be with them. Maybe Bucky would have been on that op with Steve and Romanov, maybe he could have gotten to Steve before any damage was done, maybe...

Maybe Steve would be with him now, with his luminous smile and quick wit and artlessly casual touches and hugs that meant _everything_. 

He looked down at the notebook, the words blurring behind the sheen in his eyes. Even after the way Bucky'd treated him, pushing him away at every turn, Steve had still reached out. Had tried, in his own way, to let Bucky know that he was still there, that he was still on Bucky's side. That they were still in this _together_ , even after the years and bloodshed between them.

"I joined the Army after Pearl Harbor because it was the right thing to do," Bucky started, licking dry lips. Another confession, just as soft. "Good men had died defending our country from a cowardly attack, and a lot of innocent people were being persecuted just because they looked different or worshipped different, and it was our duty to try to help. To keep our country safe and make the world right. But I _also_ signed up to fight because Steve couldn't, and it was all he'd ever wanted in life. To – to serve and make his dad proud. And, the Army...well, they were never going to take him, but they would take me and I could take that hit for him, I could – it was the only way I knew to show him how much I cared, how much I...because I _always_ did, I can't remember a time when I didn't..."

He turned beseeching eyes to her, willed her to understand what Steve had once meant to him, what Steve meant to him still. "All I wanted back then was to protect him, and now...Jesus, now I can't even –" 

"You still are." Her touch was still cool and dry, but the look in her eyes was far older than her years. "Because that's who you are and who you are to each other."

"And what if it's too late?" He knew, better than anyone, what Sinthea Schmidt had been capable of. What he'd helped train her to be. And her followers – her soldiers – had had Steve in their grips for six weeks. That was more than enough time to destroy anyone, even someone as strong and indomitable as Steve. "What if he can't be saved? What if...what if he _doesn't_ come back?"

Her small smile carried with it an echo of old grief; dimly, he remembered that her brother had died in Sokovia trying to save civilian lives. "Then you do what he would have wanted – which is live." She curled her fingers around his. "Keep fighting. Keep helping the vulnerable and weak."

The possibility of it – of a world without Steve as his compass or ballast, without his quiet laugh or the way he said Bucky's name, infusing it with so much affection and devotion – made him sick to his stomach. He didn't know _how_ to be Bucky Barnes if there wasn't a Steve Rogers to light his way.

"I'm not like him," he told her. "I'd be a poor replacement, I'm not – I never wanted to _be_ him." He'd only ever wanted to follow in Steve's footsteps, not create his own.

"No one's asking you to step into Captain America's shoes," Wanda said. "You're a hero in your own right."

Heroes did the right thing, even when the right thing was impossible. Heroes thought about people other than themselves, fought for a better world, and never gave up, no matter what the odds. As for Bucky, he was the furthest thing from it. All he'd done since he'd left Steve on the riverbank was think about himself. He'd spent years protecting himself at the cost of everyone around him, and the only thing he'd ever brought to the world had been destruction and death. Hardly a legacy worth celebrating.

"Believe me, I'm no one's idea of a hero," he said. 

"To Steve, you are."

He let out a watery, sharp laugh. "I mentioned he's an idiot, right?"

"You did." She let her hands drop, taking the warmth with them. "But, if you respect him, then trust that he _sees_ you just as you are and thinks you're a hero anyway."

The hell of it was, she was probably right. Which just proved Bucky's earlier point – Steve was a goddamned idiot and a far better man than Bucky deserved. But, Bucky would be lying if he said he wasn't grateful that Steve didn't seem to see it the same way.

Wanda patted his hand one last time and stood, smoothing out the hem of her shirt. "You should get some rest."

"Yeah," he agreed, although he didn't see how he'd be able to sleep. Not when Steve needed him. Not with the enormity of his failure weighing him down like an albatross.

Instead, after he saw her to the door and wished her a good night, he found himself retracing his steps back to Steve. The pull was inexorable, a siren's song calling him home, a fire in his blood urging him to move faster, before it was too late. He _had_ to see Steve again. Had to make sure that this wasn't just another dream. That Steve was alive and breathing and whole, at least physically. 

He got to the doors, still guarded by the Dora Milaje from earlier. Only this time, they didn't move to let him pass. They simply eyed him with a look that spoke so much louder than words that any attempt to try to get past them would not bode well for him.

And maybe he could take them in a fight, if he had to. He had decades of training, decades running highly complex combat missions, and he knew at least a dozen different forms of martial arts, as well as multitude of other styles of hand-to-hand fighting. He'd managed to hold his own against T'Challa in the Black Panther suit, so he felt pretty good about his chances if they tried to keep him from seeing Steve. But hopefully, it wouldn't come to that. 

The slightly taller of the two women spoke up. Her voice was low, mellifluous, but there wasn't any mistaking the command in it. "You are not yet authorized to be here, Mr. Barnes." 

Where else should he be? Waiting around for orders like a good soldier? Waiting for some stranger to update him on Steve's condition, like any of these people had more right to Steve than he did? Steve had been his _first_ , long before any of these people's parents were even born. They had no right to keep Steve from him. 

He held his hands out, non-threatening, and stayed still. "Look, I know you've got your orders, I just...I need to make sure he's okay." He took a deep breath, summoned every ounce of his Winter Soldier calm and training. "Could I at least talk to someone about how he's doing?"

He didn't want to fight anyone. But he wasn't leaving until he got some answers.

Some of his determination must have shown on his face, because the other guard narrowed her eyes slightly, then let out a short breath. "Wait here," she said. The _do not move or else_ was heavily implied.

"I'm not going anywhere," he replied, prepared to plant himself right where he was as long as it took. 

He and the other guard just watched each other in wary silence, until the first one reappeared, an older gentleman in a white lab coat at her side. "Dr. Denri," he said, holding out a weathered hand. "How may I be of service, Mr. Barnes?"

]The Dora Milaje both resumed their positions by the door. Bucky offered his own hand, noting the strong grip and open stance of the other man. "How is he?" Bucky didn't bother with pleasantries.

Dr. Denri offered a slight shrug. "I'm afraid there's been no change."

"And what, exactly, are you doing to him?" 

"Explaining the process is a little complicated –"

Bucky cut him off, impatient. He didn't have time for games or bullshit or people talking down to him like he was some child. "Uncomplicate it, then."

Dr. Denri let out a slight chuckle, and relaxed his shoulders, sliding his hands into the pockets of his lab coat. "I understand that you and the Captain are close –"

"Try family," Bucky interrupted. Steve was so much more than some war buddy, and it was well-past time Bucky made that clear. "So do me the courtesy of treating me like it." 

Tactically, he _knew_ he couldn't afford to make enemies of anyone here. But it was hard to remember that when Steve's well-being was in someone else's hands. This entire situation reminded him far too uncomfortably of their childhood, and the seemingly endless parade of doctors who'd made their way to Steve's bedside. Men who had held Steve's life in their hands and hadn't seemed to care what a goddamn gift that was.

Dr. Denri inclined his head in acquiescence. "As I said, it is complicated. The serum that flows through the Captain's veins is unlike anything we have seen. Dr. Abraham Erskine's work is without equal. No one in the decades since has been able to replicate it, and the few that have attempted have failed rather spectacularly, as I believe you are already aware."

If they didn't know how the serum worked or what they were doing, why the hell were they even allowed to be around Steve, let alone have access to his brain? Why weren't there genetic scientists who specialized in vita-rays or gamma-rays or _whatever_ in the room, putting their heads together to find a way to bring Steve back? Bucky didn't care if he and Steve were wanted fugitives, this was Steve's _life_ on the line. Couldn't these people see that?

"So you're telling me, what? That you can't fix him because you don't know what the serum does?" he asked, ready to march to wherever the hell T'Challa was to demand – 

"No, I'm not telling you that at all," Dr. Denri said, interrupting his thoughts with an annoyed scoff. "I'm telling you that the Captain _should_ have recovered from whatever damage this group inflicted on him already. He's not unresponsive because his body or his brain are still recovering from anything physical or neurological. His synapses are firing, his reflexes are in perfect working order, his neocortex shows no sign of distress. The Captain is unresponsive because there is something going on _inside_ his mind preventing him from accessing his cerebral cortex."

Bucky rubbed his eyes between his thumb and forefinger. "So...you're saying there's no scientific reason he shouldn't be...awake."

"Yes. And whether that is due to a factor of the serum or because of something psychosomatic, we cannot say." He drew his hands out of his pockets to spread them out. "But we are doing everything we can to try to pinpoint the underlying issue and isolate it."

Still, if their efforts so far had failed, why were they still trying? "But...if you needed outside resources, why haven't you sought them out?"

"Mr. Barnes, I recognize that you are only speaking out of concern for your friend, but Wakanda is the most technologically advanced nation in the world, and our scientists are sought after by the finest minds of every other country."

"And I get that, but you said yourself, Steve is unique –"

"And we are doing everything we can –"

"Well, it's not _enough_ ," Bucky snapped, his already thin patience fraying. Who did this arrogant prick think he was? He reminded Bucky far too uncomfortably of Dr. Goldstein back in Brooklyn – who'd always been far too quick to write Steve off, instead of doing everything in his power to help Steve get better.

Dr. Denri lifted an imperious eyebrow even as the guards behind him shifted their stance. "I understand your frustration –"

"No, I really don't think you do." But Bucky rocked back on his heels, biting back the automatic retort with an audible jaw click. He couldn't afford to alienate anyone, even though every particle in his body yearned to fight his way to Steve's side and spirit him away somewhere safe.

Except, there _was_ no safe place. Not if the person holding Steve hostage was Steve himself.

The doctor's face smoothed, the hard, thin line of his mouth softening. "Mr. Barnes, I assure you, we are utilizing every resource at our disposal. Every single one," he said, his tone now placating. "The King mentioned you had some experience with the methods of the people who'd held the Captain hostage?"

Bucky gave a short nod. "Yeah. You could say that."

"Then we would welcome your input and assistance. _After_ Dr. A'kane has cleared you," Dr. Denbi added, pointedly, a reminder. 

"I wasn't trying to..." He shook his head, and regrouped. Started again. Conciliatory, quiet. "It's just...taking care of him...that used to be my job."

Used to be. A century ago and a world away, back before Bucky'd fucked it all up by falling into Hydra's control, and then compounded it by leaving Steve to his own devices for over two years. And that was before going into cryo and leaving him again. Bucky had no one to blame but himself for the way things were now. For being on the outside looking in while others did all the hard work of trying to bring Steve back to himself.

"I understand." Dr. Denri offered a small smile. "You have my word that the Captain's recovery is our primary concern, and that we are working around the clock to try to bring him back. Just as we've been working around the clock to try to clear your mind of the triggers within it."

Bucky's windpipe tightened. He could only nod again, unable to get a single word out. Steve had _trusted_ these people with Bucky's care, and that couldn't have been easy for him. King T'Challa said he considered Steve a friend. And, after everything the king had done to protect Steve, to help Bucky, how could he doubt it? He _wasn't_ a scientist or a doctor – just a highly-trained killer without a job or a home or a country, and without the only person who could make losing any of it bearable. 

"I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Mr. Barnes," Dr. Denri said and, with another slight nod, turned and keyed himself back through the doors. Back where Steve was sitting in a cell, alone and defenseless, where Bucky couldn't follow or keep him safe.

Bucky just stayed in place in silence for a long time, eyes burning and heart heavy, before finally trudging back to his room. The journal sat on the bedside table, mocking him with its very presence. He needed to see _Steve_ , not read dry words on a page. Needed to hear Steve's voice, the openness of his laugh, the way he said Bucky's name like it was a miracle. 

But when he picked up the journal to shove it into a drawer and out of sight, he couldn't help but thumb through the pages instead. Couldn't help but trace over every scrawled word with a fingertip, greedy for the merest scrap of Steve's existence. For any trace at all that Steve was still with him, even if it was just a collection of letters written to an ungrateful and undeserving man. God, he'd made so many mistakes. If he had to do it all over again, he'd have never run. He'd have stayed at Steve's side on the riverbank, and faced whatever consequences that had come his way. He would have tried harder to be the man Steve thought he was.

What had Steve's life been like, while Bucky'd been in cryo? Bucky hadn't given it much thought – too selfishly focused on putting himself out of commission – but it had to have been like losing everything all over again. No home, no team, his friends scattered across the globe, and the ones who remained dealing with their own loss and trauma. Unable to be there for Steve the way he deserved. 

Not that Steve was an easy nut to crack, even in the best of times. Knowing Steve, he'd probably thrown himself right into service without regard for his own physical or mental well-being. At least one of the letters mentioned going on missions for T'Challa, which was Steve all over. He'd never been good at sitting still. Even as a kid, he'd been all tightly coiled energy and brimming with purpose, burning with the need to right every wrong and fix every injustice. But Bucky also remembered how run-down Steve had been during the War, how all of the death and destruction had worn on even his vast stores of energy. Bucky doubted the years since he'd been thawed out had been kind to him. That anyone had bothered to tell him it was okay to stop and take a breath.

He turned the page, smiling a little as he skimmed over Steve's adventures and thoughts. Still trying so hard to be a good man, to live up to that lofty ideal Abraham Erskine had given him. If Steve came out of this – no, _when_ Steve came out of this – the first thing Bucky was going to do was convince him to take some well-deserved time off to rest and recover and get his feet under him. It was past time he put himself first for just five fucking minutes. To get a chance to travel, maybe, or kick back on a beach somewhere, or...well, Bucky wasn't exactly an expert on what people did with their time off in this day and age, but he'd figure it out. 

Just as soon as he got Steve back.

***


	4. Chapter 4

_June 2nd, 2016  
Dear Buck,_

_It feels weird writing this since I'm sitting right next to you, but in an odd way, it also feels a little like back when we were young, passing notes in class. The view's better than our old school, at least. There's lots of room here, the lab's brightly lit, with big windows and a great view of the waterfall and the valley and the city below – it looks like something out of those sci-fi rags you used to read when we were kids. The buildings are all gleaming metal and glass and the tech is unlike anything I've ever seen. Reminds me a little of stories Thor's shared about Asgard._

_I don't think I've ever been anywhere with so much green, either. T'Challa tells me there are some amazing hikes along the foothills of the mountains. Maybe when you wake up, we can take a couple of days to explore the area, see for ourselves. It'll be like back when we used to go camping in the Catskills in the summer. Only, hopefully, with fewer snakes in our sleeping bags._

_We're all taking a few days to regroup and assess our options. T'Challa's been incredibly generous in his hospitality – above and beyond any sense of duty or payback or whatever he's calling it. I hate taking advantage, but it's not like we have a lot of choices right now. And Sam and Clint and Scott, well, they can say what they want, but they need some time to fully rest up and heal. We've got a long road ahead of us, no matter what we choose. (Well, they do, at least. I've already made my choice – made it decades ago.)_

_Clint's offered to take Wanda to his farm to recuperate and recharge, if she wants. It's up to her, but I think it might do her some good to get away for a little while, remember what it's like to be human, and not looked upon as a weapon of mass destruction. Laura – Clint's wife – seems really nice, at least, from the couple of times I've met her. And Clint's got a soft spot for Wanda (it's a long story, I'll tell you in person, so remind me), so we'll see. This life we lead – the good we try to do – it's not for everyone. Not that Wanda's not strong, because she is. She's one of the strongest people I know. But if anyone deserves a chance at a normal life...well, I guess you could say I'm more sensitive to that need than most._

_You look really good, by the way. Like you're rested. Peaceful, even. Dr. A'kane – the lead scientist in charge of your recovery, you met her right before you went under – says all of your vitals are great and that you're even dreaming. I hope they're good dreams. You deserve them._

_I've got dinner with T'Challa soon, so I should go and get cleaned up. He says he might have a lead on a few Hydra cells still operating in North Africa, and well, I can't think of a better way to repay him for everything he's done for us than to go after bad guys in his own backyard, so to speak. Plus, it'll be good to get back out in the field. To do something, even if it's just rooting out some low-level thugs. I can't sit around and stare at you sleeping all the time, people'll start to talk._

_Yours,  
Steve_

***

Bucky watched, metal fingers tapping a steady beat on his thigh, as Dr. A'kane drew a vial of blood from his right arm and ran it through a machine that put even the most sophisticated equipment Hydra'd ever had to shame. The lab, with its bright lights and futuristic tech, was the last place on earth he wanted to be – he'd had enough of being stuck with needles to last another dozen lifetimes – but the sooner the good doctor finished her tests, the sooner he could see Steve again. 

She glanced up from her reading, and eyed him with a concerned frown. "How did you sleep last night?"

He lifted a hand in a seesaw motion. "Like shit, if I'm honest, but no dreams." Which was a first. The two years he'd spent on the run had been riddled with frequent nightmares of his time under Hydra's control.

"Hmm." The frown didn't lessen, but she bent back over her chart without further comment.

"Uh, speaking of...um, dreams, I mean." He wiped his flesh hand across his sweats, bunching the fabric in his fingers. "While I was...sleeping? In cryo? Whatever you want to call it? I started having these...dreams, I guess. But way more vivid."

Dr. A'kane looked back up, but didn't make any other movement. "Do you have any sense of when they might have started?"

"No, just...they all..." He blew out a sharp breath. He needed to be honest with her. No more keeping secrets. That was what got him and everyone else in so much shit in the first place. "Steve was dead or gone, in all of them. And in more than a few of them...I was always chasing after Sinthea in some way. That's...that's weird, right? I mean, that I'd be dreaming about her before I was awake and knew what happened to Steve and that she was involved somehow?"

She set the chart down to face him fully. Her gaze was weary, but kind. "It is unusual, but not entirely unheard of. Coma patients are often aware in some way of the outside world, and cryo-sleep works much the same way as an induced coma. And Ms. Maximoff seemed to think that you were aware of your surroundings on some level while you were under. It could simply be that you heard the conversations around you about the Captain's predicament and were trying to process it."

Could it really be that simple? "But it all felt so _real_ ," he said, opening and closing metal fingers. The plates shifted silently, the reaction time instantaneous. So much better than his old arm. "Like, I tried pinching myself, and it was painful. I had a bruise." 

"Again, not entirely uncommon," she replied. "Your brain's capacity for repair after all of the damage inflicted on it over the last seventy years is nothing short of a miracle. The fact that you're having these, as you said, vivid dreams, is a good sign that you're continuing to process the trauma of what was done to you."

Which...all sounded positive and like she thought it something he should be proud of, but he still couldn't relax. "Yeah, but...do you think that means I can't be trusted?" he pressed. "That I won't know what's real and what's not at some point?"

She walked over to him and took his right wrist, two cool fingers pressed to his pulse. "Plenty of people have realistic-feeling dreams. And your brainwave patterns have been remarkably consistent both in cryo and since you've awakened."

Which...was good? Right? He had no idea what to think. He'd been so sure she was going to recommend he go back into cryo until they could fix this new problem. Or that she'd recommend throwing him into some sort of quarantine like they had Steve in, until they could make sure he wasn't going to snap again and revert back to Winter Soldier mode. 

"So you _don't_ think I have anything to worry about?" he asked, carefully.

She let out a small laugh, and let go of his wrist, nodding in satisfaction. "I would not go that far, Mr. Barnes. Your recovery is not set in stone, and there could be many setbacks along with way. But, as long as you are able to tell dream from reality, I would not put too much stock in them, from a scientific point of view." Then she gave him a look that reminded Bucky sharply of the nuns back in Brooklyn. "However, I would recommend you speak to someone about your dreams. As well as everything else you've been through."

"Like...another doc?"

"A therapist, yes," she agreed. "One who specializes in post-traumatic stress disorder suffered by prisoners of war."

He'd read about PTSD when he'd lived in Bucharest, during those long months when he'd searched for every scrap of information he could find about himself, and if there had been anyone else that Hydra had manipulated and warped like him. In his research, he'd come across a lot of articles about soldiers who'd returned home from war with nightmares and the shakes and paranoid delusions and emotional whiplash. It had all sounded too sickeningly familiar. 

"Prisoner of war?" he asked, and pointed to himself. "You think that's...me?"

Her eyebrow lifted again. "Was it not exactly what you were?"

Was it? He'd never really thought about it like that, but it made a weird sort of sense. Sure, he'd been given autonomy over how he ran his missions, but he'd never been given a choice about whether to go on them in the first place. And he certainly hadn't chosen having his memories wiped over and over to keep him compliant.

"Okay," he conceded, "you might be onto something. And you think talking to someone will help?" He was willing to try anything at this point. Clearly, running away hadn't worked, and trying to cure himself hadn't done any good, and going into cryo hadn't seemed to fix him, either. He was fresh out of ideas.

"It certainly couldn't hurt." She picked the chart back up. "I can make a recommendation, if you like."

"Yeah, uh, yeah." Steve had trusted her, he reminded himself. And she certainly seemed to know what she was talking about. After all, she'd been in charge of him the last nine or so months, and if she thought talking to another doc would help make some sense out of the mess that was his brain, then he was willing to give it a shot. "And...if I do that...can I see Steve again?"

"I don't see any reason to prevent you from seeing him now," she said, surprising him. "His condition didn't seem to get any worse after you saw him yesterday, and I heard about what happened last night. Captain Rogers was much the same way your first few weeks in cryo, so I believe it would aid you immensely if you felt you had a say in his care."

A dizzying wave of relief swept over him. He'd be able to see Steve. To truly look after him, study him, see if maybe there was _something_ he could do to snap Steve out of whatever was happening. To ask questions about his recovery or the treatments he'd been getting or what methods were being used to wake him up.

He hopped up, eager now to get going. "Hey, uh, I wanted to ask. Is there a reason he's behind a force field when he's...catatonic like that?"

"Given the nature of Schmidt's work, we thought it the prudent solution to take some precautions." She glanced up, her look sympathetic. "Just in case the Captain woke up and was not himself."

She meant brainwashed. Just like Bucky had been, once. "Makes sense." The last thing anyone at the royal palace needed was a supersoldier running amok. 

He pointed at the door. "So, is it okay if I, uh...?"

"I want to see you tomorrow to run some more tests, but you're free to go," she said. "I trust you remember the way?"

"Yeah. Thanks," he said, trying to infuse it with as much sincerity as he could. "I mean, for everything you're doing. Everything you've done."

She nodded in response. "You're a patient in my care, Mr. Barnes. It is my sworn duty to help you in any way I can, but I do appreciate the gesture," she said, then went back to her work. 

He left her to it, feeling a little bit better about things. It took effort not to sprint down the hallway, but he figured he wouldn't help his cause any if he was running in the corridors like some sort of madman.

A different set of guards was posted outside the doors today, but Dr. A'kane must have let them know that Bucky was cleared to visit, because today, they just keyed him in, and let him pass without comment. There was still a group of scientists sitting behind the bank of monitors, but Dr. Denri wasn't among them, so Bucky kept going and stopped, instead, at the edge of the force field.

Steve didn't look like he'd moved at all since yesterday. He was still sitting on the cot with his head bowed, the wheat-blond highlights in his hair glinting in the bright fluorescent light. Far too still, like a lifelike dummy instead of a living, breathing person. None of Steve's flash and fire, that coiled energy that always seemed to hum under the surface of his body.

But just seeing him was enough to ease the thundering beat of Bucky's heart to a more manageable level.

"Hey Steve." He lifted his hand in an aborted wave. "You look, uh, good...I guess." He winced, glancing around to see if anyone was paying him any attention – everyone was busy – and turned back to Steve. "Well, you know, you look...yeah, okay, I never could lie to you worth a damn, huh, why try to start now? But you've looked...worse." He let out a small laugh. "I mean, at least you're not laid up in bed hacking up a lung, right?"

He dropped, cross-legged, to the floor, keeping his hands loose at his sides. Kept his voice low, non-threatening, just in case Steve snapped out of his spell and didn't know where he was or who Bucky was. God knew Bucky'd had enough experience with that sort of disorientation; he wanted to do everything in his power to make sure Steve was as comfortable as possible.

Once he was settled, he opened his mouth. Then just as quickly closed it, unsure of what to say next. Now that he was here, with Steve just a few feet away, all of his words seemed to dry up. There was so much he _wanted_ to tell Steve, so many things they needed to talk about, things Bucky needed to confess... But he sort of needed Steve to be an active participant for any of that to happen. This...this whole one-sided conversation was...well, he was woefully out of practice was what he really was. The last time he'd done anything close to this was maybe when Steve was eighteen or nineteen and laid up with a bad fever. Bucky'd kept him company by reading dime-store novels until his voice had given out.

Fuck it, he thought. He'd just have to wing it, like always. Hopefully Steve would forgive him. "So, uh...I know you're probably wondering what took me so long to come visit, and I wish I had a better answer for you, but...I have no idea why I wouldn't wake up from cryo." He shrugged, in apology or explanation, even he wasn't sure. "I think I kept trying to. I know that's probably only a small comfort, but it's all I've got."

Guilt sat thick on his tongue, coated every word in a film of gray. "I'm so sorry, Steve, you gotta believe me. About everything. I thought – well, I was going to say I thought I was protecting you, but the truth is, I was protecting myself." He wished, fervently, that he could get them to lower the force field so he could at least sit beside Steve, offer some warmth or comfort or something. Somehow, he didn't think anyone would be too happy with the request, and he didn't want to rock the boat this early on, especially without Dr. Denri here to vouch for him. Not to mention, he still needed to prove to everyone he could be trusted not to go back into Winter Soldier mode first. (Although he had no idea how he was going to do that, either.) 

And, if this was all he was allowed, then he'd gratefully take it. At least he could watch the steady rise and fall of Steve's chest that meant he was still breathing. And if he was still breathing, there was still hope that Steve would come back to him. Bucky could survive a long, long time on hope.

He shifted, leaned in a little closer, and dropped his voice so it was almost a whisper. This was for Steve alone, not for the room at large to overhear. "I've...I started remembering a lot of things...during the two years I was on the run, I mean. About my past. The person I used to be. And...you're in so many memories, Steve, it's like...like we were joined at the hip back in the day. Maybe we were, I don't know. When you come out of this, I'll ask. I got so many questions, so many things I wanna know, and I hope you'll be able to fill in some of the blanks. But if you don't...if you can't...that's fine. We'll...well, like you said in one of your letters, we'll just make new memories. I don't need the past as long as I've got the future – I hope you'll be part of it, but if that's not something you want now, well, I'll understand. It'll be enough knowing you're around."

He'd gotten a glimpse of what a life without Steve's presence would look like, and he wanted nothing to do with it. For the first time, he thought he knew what it was Steve had gone through while Bucky'd been on the run – that same sense of helpless frustration and despair – and he couldn't believe he'd put Steve through that. The regret ate away at him like a cancer – 

"Well, if this isn't just _the_ most Hallmark thing I've ever seen."

Bucky shot to his feet and whirled around, metal hand curled and ready to strike, only to see Sam Wilson standing before him, legs akimbo, arms crossed, and sporting a supremely unimpressed expression.

"Sleeping Beauty finally awakens, I see," Wilson said, disdain all but dripping from every word. "A little too late, but I guess it's better than nothing."

Bucky bristled, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Who the hell did this asshole think he was? "You're one to talk. Where the hell have _you_ been?"

Wilson arched an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"Why weren't you here?" Bucky flung his hand out, jabbed a finger towards Steve, who was still sitting silent and oblivious, no reaction to the raised voices or sudden movements. "Steve is stuck in some sort of stasis and shackled up like some sort of goddamn prisoner, and you want to _lecture_ me? What the fuck? Maybe if you'd been with him on his mission –"

"Uh uh, I am nipping this right the _fuck_ now." Wilson didn't so much as twitch in his direction, but Bucky braced himself for a fight. "My life does not revolve around Steve's missions – I have other shit going on and other obligations I need to fulfill, and last I looked, Steve was an _adult_ with a fuckton of combat and mission experience and was capable of going out in the field with _another_ highly trained operative without consulting anyone else about it."

Everything Wilson said was logical and true, but Bucky wasn't in the mood to be either of those things. He was frustrated and pissed off and scared out of his mind, and taking all of that out on Sam Wilson – who didn't seem to like him much anyway and had come in guns blazing – was fine with him. "And that's more important than helping the man who saved your life?"

"I don't know, you tell me." Wilson gestured at him contemptuously. "Is it?"

"Fuck you, this isn't about me."

"I disagree. I think this has _all_ been about you. You're the reason we're all in this goddamn mess in the first place." Wilson looked past him to where Steve was sitting, and the look on his face hardened to pure steel. "You're the last person who gets to lecture me about what it means to be a friend."

Bucky pulled up short, the words hitting their mark. Wilson was right. Bucky _was_ the last person to tell anyone how to be a good friend. Maybe once, he'd known how to be there for another person, how to let another person be there for him. But now, he was nothing more than an obligation and a duty. He hadn't trusted Steve with any of his secrets, and a lot of people had died because of it. Even if Steve didn't blame him for what happened at the UN – even if T'Challa insisted Bucky wasn't at fault for what Zemo had done – Bucky knew better. If he'd been a friend...if he'd let Steve _in_ and told Steve about the trigger words, maybe all of this might've been avoided. 

All of Bucky's earlier bluster vanished, his shoulders slumping in defeat. Fighting with Wilson wouldn't change anything. Steve would still be stuck inside his own head at the end of it, and they still wouldn't be closer to figuring out a way to bring him out. 

If they were going to have any shot at reversing whatever Sinthea's people had done, they needed to work together. And that started with Bucky taking responsibility for the part he'd played. Whatever had happened with Steve, it was up to him to figure out how to fix it.

"You're right," he conceded, softly. "I'm sorry."

Wilson frowned, suspicious. "You're gonna have to be more specific."

"Everything, maybe, I don't know. But you were there for him, and I...wasn't." He chewed the words out like sand, each one sticking in his throat. "So I guess...I'm sorry. That you...had to bear the brunt of all that on your own. You never should have had to."

"Steve's not some sort of burden, man," Wilson said, but he uncrossed his arms, and relaxed his stance slightly. "He's my friend. We help each other through the bad days and rough times."

"I know, I just..." He blew out an impatient breath. "Look, I'm fucking this all up, but –"

"You know I did a report on you and Rogers in high school," Wilson said, interrupting him.

"Uh okay?" Bucky said, lost. What the fuck did that have to do with anything? "I hope you got a good grade?"

"Nah, I kinda half-assed it, if I'm honest. History was pretty boring. I was way more into science and blowing shit up and trying to make a good impression on Rashonda Jones – prettiest girl in the whole grade, y'know."

Bucky thought about the days – and the missions – he'd started to remember. Faces he'd been able to piece together into some sort of whole, memories that had finally started to come into focus. Days upon days in the cold and the mud, night upon night sneaking silently into camps and bases. All of the victories, all of the close calls. The rest of the Howlies, Peggy, _Howard_...they were history, just like him and Steve. While Steve had slept on ice and Bucky had reshaped the century on Hydra's orders, they'd all passed into legend. They were book reports assigned to bored teenagers now, their story dry academia, something learned for a goddamned _grade_. 

And perhaps that was all he and Steve should have been – maybe attempting to live in the modern world was the true crime. But Bucky didn't think so. He had to believe that there was still a place for them somewhere. That this great big world, so much bigger than it used to be, still had room for two displaced soldiers to make a life and, hopefully, be together in some way.

"Blowing shit up isn't all it's cracked up to be," he finally said, shrugging.

"Yeah, I sorta realized that on my own," Wilson replied, and Bucky belatedly remembered that he'd been a combat vet long before hooking up with Steve's current merry band of do-gooders. "But hey, I just...even the little bit I do remember about that paper – about you and Cap... _Steve_ – I remember this. Every book about your missions during your war or Steve's childhood talked about how you two were always together. And maybe that's all in the past and you don't want anything to do with him anymore, but Steve...he still thinks of you as his."

"I don't deserve it," Bucky whispered, the guilt coming back tenfold.

Wilson shook his head. "It's not about _you_ or what you deserve," he said, "and right now, we got more important things to worry about."

"I know." He knew exactly what he owed Steve, what he owed to himself. "But...whatever Steve and I need to figure out...that's ours."

"You're right." Wilson inclined his head, acknowledging the point. "And maybe I'm pissed because I'm working through my own guilt about not being there with him and Nat, and it's easier to take it out on you –"

"– I really don't need an apology from you." In fact, he'd prefer it if they changed the subject altogether.

"Look...I'll be honest. I still don't like you all that much, but it's because you're an asshole, not because of anything you felt you had to do to survive, or because of anything Hydra made you do." Then Wilson shrugged, and gave Bucky a pointed look. "Except my wings, man. Not sure I'll ever forgive you for what you did to them."

"That's fair." He'd earned so much worse, but he recognized the olive branch for what it was. He and Wilson would never be friends, and that was okay. They had Steve's well-being in common, which was more than enough of a foundation to build on.

"I'll get you back one day." Wilson grinned, gap-toothed and sly. "But, until then, I'm gonna let you take the lead on figuring out how to get Steve back to us. Just keep me in the loop, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course," Bucky replied. He had a feeling he'd need all the help he could get. "Do you know why they were on the mission in the first place? Or...is there any clue about what Sinthea's group's objective was?"

"Only thing I know is that they'd been making some moves to try to take over a few rogue Hydra cells," Wilson said, stroking long fingers over his chin in thought. "Power vacuums don't stay vacuums for long, y'know?"

Bucky nodded, and gestured at Wilson to continue.

"But you'd have to ask Nat about her intel or if she's found out anything – the warehouse where we found Steve was pretty bare when we got to it. Not a lot of clues about what they'd done to him or why."

Figured. "Guess I'll wait to ask her my questions. Thanks anyway."

"It's good to have you on our side," Wilson said, then gave him one last nod before stepping up to the force field, and Steve. Bucky gave Steve one last look – still no movement – then walked out of the room to give them some privacy. It was the least he owed them.

*** 

_July 6th, 2016_

_Dear Buck,_

_It's...well, I don't actually know what time it is, but it's pretty late. Or early, depending on how you look at it. I'm holed up right now in an observational tower on one of the upper levels of the royal palace and I don't think I've ever seen this many stars in my entire life, not even during the War. I didn't even know this many existed. This might be the first place I show you after you wake up. If there's anything at all of the old you still in there, you'll be in heaven._

_I guess you're probably wondering why I'm writing a new letter so soon after my old one. And the truth is, I couldn't sleep. Some nights are worse than others – I'm sure you know the feeling. When everything seems like too much. When the walls start to close in and you can't get enough air in your lungs. When you're afraid to close your eyes, because you know what it is you'll see when you do._

_I can already picture that little sad look on your face and that concerned frown you get when you're worried about me – the one you used to think I never saw, but I always did, Buck, I just never said anything. And you don't have to be worried, really. I'm okay, holding strong, staying steady, but you know how it goes. Everyone has low moments and low thoughts, even Captain America._

_But I guess I'm not anymore, am I? And the weird thing is, I don't miss it. Being Captain America, I mean. I miss the shield as a weapon – it's hard getting used to not having it, although T'Challa's offered to make me another one or something close to it, and I'm considering it. But I don't miss the title. I don't miss the burden of it. I wonder now if I ever liked having it, or if I just got used to the weight of it after awhile. (I know how you feel about it, how you've always felt.)_

_I'm not just saying all this to make you feel better, by the way. I knew what I was doing when I left it all behind. I knew what it meant when I dropped it at Tony's feet. It wasn't like I was forced – Tony wasn't exactly in a position to make me let go of it. But you know already, more than anyone, that this wasn't the first time I was willing to lose the shield if it was a choice between keeping it and saving you._

_I don't mean to bring up bad memories – I just want you to know that I didn't regret dropping it that day on the helicarrier and I don't regret it now. I'd make the same choice, as many times as it takes, if keeping you alive is the reward._

_I'm putting this in writing so you won't forget. And if you ever have a low moment yourself or a night when you can't sleep, I hope reading over this helps you the way writing it helped me._

_I'm always going to choose you, Buck, no matter what. To the end of the line, pal. You're stuck with me._

_If you remember nothing else, remember that._

_Yours,  
Steve_

***

Bucky stalked the halls, feeling like nothing more than a caged tiger pacing its cell. With every step, he tried to recall every scrap of information, every memory he could about Sinthea and the ways she used to torture and manipulate her victims into compliant obedience. She'd been different than Fenhoff, relied on electroshock therapy over hypnosis, science over psychoanalysis. But she had a way of digging under a person's skin and peeling back all of the layers that made them tick, relentless in her approach. He'd witnessed her break battle-hardened soldiers in less than a week, using a combination of methods, each one suited specifically to the person in question.

Which begged the question: what would make Steve, one of the strongest people Bucky had ever met, break?

Bucky had to crack that code, and soon, before even Steve's accelerated healing couldn't help reverse the damage Sinthea's people had inflicted. Bucky had no idea why he felt that way – it wasn't like he had any scientific proof that Steve didn't have much time left – but he _knew_ , deep in his gut, that the clock was ticking inexorably down, sands slipping far too fast through the hourglass.

His restless feet led him up a path to a terrace outside of the palace, the sun setting over the waterfalls in a fiery ball of yellow and orange. The water looked iridescent, sparkled like diamonds, the steel and glass of the surrounding skyscrapers and other buildings glinting silver in the dying light. It was beautiful in Wakanda, breathtakingly so. And there was something soothing about listening to the roar of the water rushing over rocks, in staring down at the crowds hustling below him on the sidewalks, the endless stretch of traffic on the city streets. There was so much life here, so many people, all with their own concerns, their own trials and tribulations, their own struggles, both big and small.

For the first time since Bucky could remember, he was free to simply enjoy a sunset or people-watch, without looking over his shoulder or wondering if today would be the day when his luck ran out. It should have thrilled him. Finally, he had a modicum of independence, and people around him who seemed genuinely interested in his mental and physical well-being, and not because they needed him in peak shape for a mission. 

But it all seemed so empty. Dull. Even during his years on the run, he'd always known, in the back of his head, that Steve was out there. Even when his memories were more Swiss cheese than anything concrete, he'd still remembered Steve and what that bond had once meant to him. Steve had still been that bright point on the horizon. And, even though he'd only started to realize it – too little and far too late for it to matter – getting to a place where he thought he could maybe deserve the chance at happiness he'd blown so many years ago had always been the ultimate goal at the back of his mind. Even on his darkest days on the run, when he'd wanted to burn the memory of who he was and where he'd come from out of his brain, Steve's voice had always been there. A talisman, even when he couldn't admit he'd wanted or needed it. 

It was hard to think about a world without Steve's oversized presence. That he might never see Steve's hopeful, shy smile again or hear his voice or feel the quiet strength of Steve's arms or know that unshakable faith –

He _had_ to find a way to bring Steve back to him. They had unfinished business, he and Steve; there was so much they needed to catch up on, so many things Bucky needed to say. So many things he knew he needed to hear, as well, if the letters Steve had written were any indication.

And the hell of it was, he still wasn't even completely certain any of this was really happening. All he had to go on – his only anchor that this might be the real world – was the fact that Steve was here and not dead or missing, and Bucky had a chance to save him. Hardly conclusive proof. 

But, it was good enough. It had to be. He couldn't take the chance on doing nothing and hoping for the best.

He heard too-light footsteps, and shifted his body weight, twisting his head slightly to get a glimpse of the intruder. Natasha Romanov was walking towards him, hands out where he could see them, and a small, non-threatening look on her face. Like she wasn't capable of taking him out with a well-timed kick, or a garotte to the neck that he'd never see until it was too late. Like her entire body wasn't a weapon she could wield at will. Exactly like him.

"You can stop where you are," he said, mildly, when she was about ten feet out. She might have let him and Steve go in Leipzig, and she might have been Steve's friend, but she'd also tried to kill him every time they'd met each other. 

She cocked her head, scrutinizing him. "Sam told me you were awake."

He leaned a hip against the stone railing. "If you've come to browbeat me, you should know Wilson already beat you to it. And I'll be honest, I let him get away with it, but I don't need to explain myself to him or to you."

"You're right," she replied, with a small smile. "You don't. Besides, even if you did, yelling isn't my style."

"I guess not." He'd trained with a few Black Widows from time to time over the years, and their methods of extracting information were both much more subtle, and far more brutally effective as a result. She wouldn't need to raise her voice to get what she needed. 

"Sam's not the only one who considers Steve a friend." She offered another smile, this one brittle. "And the two of you aren't the only ones running around with guilt and wondering if you could have done more."

Yes, he thought, studying her more closely. She had the look of someone who'd had more than one sleepless night obsessing over every detail she might have missed. "You wanna tell me what happened out there?" he asked, his voice gentler now. Maybe if he understood what had gone sideways, he could figure out how to undo it.

She mimicked his stance, leaned an elbow against the railing. Still at a minimum safe distance, still respecting his boundaries. "I'd been tracking Schmidt's group for a few months, following rumors, and trails so cold they may as well have been ice, but they always managed to slip away – no matter what I did, they were a step ahead of me. But, I caught a break a couple of months ago, and found out where they were planning their next op. No details exactly on what the op _was_ , so I wanted some backup, just in case things went sideways."

"It never occurred to you that they wanted you to find them?" That sloppiness didn't sound like the infamous Black Widow he knew. Her angles had angles.

"Of course it did. That's why I wanted Steve with me." She sighed, long and deep. "I suspected a trap. It just didn’t occur to me that _Steve_ might've been their target. And I just handed him to them on a silver platter."

He didn't tell her it wasn't her fault. Or that there wasn't anything she could have done. The words would have been hollow, and wouldn't change anything. 

"Any idea _why_ they were targeting Steve?" Not that most terrorist groups needed a reason beyond the obvious, but Sinthea's people were smarter than that. If they wanted Steve, it was for a specific reason.

She turned to look him dead in the eyes. "I think they were looking for info on where you were being held. We heard one of them mention the name Winter Soldier over comms and that's when Steve went running."

Bucky's blood turned to ice. He was the reason Steve had gotten captured. He was the reason why Steve was locked behind a force field, and lost in his own mind. _Fuck_.

"Hey." Romanov took a step closer. "I know that look. It wasn't your fault, either."

She was wrong, but he didn't bother to argue the point. It wasn't relevant. "Tell me what happened."

"It was supposed to be strictly a fact-finding mission – we'd slip in, try to see who they were meeting and why, slip back out with no one the wiser."

"But Steve heard my name." The hell of it was, Bucky couldn't say he wouldn't have reacted the exact same way. They'd both been born with protective and impulsive streaks where the other was concerned, and no amount of time or distance apart had seemed to have made a difference.

Romanov nodded. "By the time I made it off the roof and onto the street, he'd vanished. And there were no security cameras in the building, or around the perimeter." 

"If you'd been with him, you'd most likely be dead or in the same position he's in," Bucky told her. Sinthea had also trained with Black Widows, and knew exactly what it took to incapacitate them, or even break them. She'd done it once, just for the challenge of it. 

"I know," she said, with a rueful look. "But it doesn't make living with it any easier."

He knew what that felt like, too. How carrying all of that weight could be just as destructive as a physical wound. "You've known him the longest, right? After he came out of the ice?"

"Yes, but it wasn't like we were friends at first." She looked back out over the railing, her strong profile limned in shadows from the setting sun. "We were paired together for a year before we started to actually trust each other."

"What happened to change things?" he asked. There was so much about Steve he didn't know. So many ways he needed to rediscover the most important person in his life. 

"You did. Well, you and your old handlers." She laughed, once, softly. "Add in finding out the organization I'd been working for to try to redeem myself was – surprise – rotten from the inside out and almost getting killed about a dozen times in a twenty-four hour period...well, let's just say Steve had my back the whole time. It made it easier to have his, too."

"Inspiring loyalty is one of his best traits." From Romanov to Wilson, even to King T'Challa, it seemed Steve hadn't lost any of his gift. But then, he'd always seen the best in people.

"So why did you run?" she asked, looking at him once again. "Two years is a long time to hide and, correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think you were ever planning on telling Steve where you were if shit hadn't gone to hell in a handbasket."

"You're right, I wasn't." He wasn't exactly proud of it, but it was the truth. "It seemed like the best option at the time."

"If running away was your grand plan to make sure Steve forgot about you, then I have to wonder if you ever knew him at all," Romanov said, shaking her head. 

"I never said it was a good plan," he replied. "Just...it was the only one I could think of that kept him safe."

It sounded ridiculous when he said it out loud. Keeping Steve safe. Like Steve was still ten years old again, with brittle bones and faulty lungs. But even back then, he hadn't needed Bucky's _help_. Just Bucky's support. And Steve hadn't been that boy in a long, long time – he'd kept himself safe just fine for years without Bucky at his six. Something Bucky should have remembered. 

This time, her laugh was sardonic. Like she couldn't believe his words, either. "Steve Rogers is the most stupidly reckless person I know, and believe me when I tell you, that's saying something. _Safe_ isn't a word he knows the meaning of," she said. "He wouldn't have cared about that."

He nodded in agreement. She was right, but not for the reasons she probably thought. "What happened to him? I know neither of us is the same, but..." He couldn't explain it, not without talking about the letters. But the man who'd written him was – not suicidal, not quite that far gone – but riding close to that edge. Someone who'd lost his way, lost hope and that bedrock faith that people could be better, if only given the opportunity.

"You fell, he crashed, you disappeared, Peggy Carter died." Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. "Take your pick. You can throw in lying to Tony and dragging Sam and Wanda and Clint into this mess on top of it, if you want."

"Jesus." He ran a hand over his face, and blew out a short breath. He wasn't the only one with guilt. But it didn't make hearing about Steve's any easier to bear. "I fucked up, I get it, okay. But I'm here now. That's gotta count, right?"

One corner of her mouth twisted into a smirk. "I guess we'll see, won't we."

"I'm not running again." It was a promise he'd make in blood, if he needed to. But maybe that's what all of his dreams had been about. Atonement. Finally being there for Steve the way he'd promised, once upon a time. 

"That would be a good place to start," she replied, then straightened and rapped her knuckles on the railing. "It's good to see you up and around, Barnes. Steve'll be happy to see you, when he wakes up."

 _When_ , she'd said. Not _if_. He clung to that as he watched her walk away, the first stars blinking into existence in the twilight sky.

***


	5. Chapter 5

_November 2nd, 2016_

_Buck,_

_I'm sorry I'm sorry God I'm so fucking sorry I didn't – you gotta believe me I didn't want – I had to. I'm sorry._

_I know it's not an excuse. I know that. And I'm not trying to – I deserve – I know how angry you must be ~~and if you never forgive me, that's~~ and I accept that – but you gotta understand, Buck, you weren't. You weren't yourself. That was Zola and Karpov and Pierce, not you. It  wasn't you._

_It was going so fucking well. It was I swear. You were – God it was so good to see you, to really talk to you...I don't think I realized just how much I'd missed the sound of your voice until – ~~please don't hate me I don't think I could~~_

_Dr. A'kane thinks you – that you had a backdoor trigger. Related to Pierce's last mission for you. The one to, well, kill me. That he'd implanted some sort of failsafe so you could complete it and – I know you were trying to fight it, Buck – I know it wasn't you. But I couldn't – these are good people here in the lab, and they're just trying to help you. I know you know that. I know you wouldn't hurt them deliberately._

_Dr. Denri and Princess Shuri are – they wanna keep you under for another six months to re-evaluate your condition and recalibrate your brainwaves and continue your treatments. Which I know is nothing, I know that, I just – I thought ~~God, I really thought this time –~~_

_Doesn't matter. I'll be here, okay, I promise you I'm not going anywhere. Whenever you wake up, I'll be right by your side unless you tell me – unless you want –_

_I am so sorry. I can't say it enough._

_Yours,  
Steve_

***

Sinthea prodded at the comatose, naked body on the metal operating table, and sighed reproachfully when he didn't move. "I expected so much more from him," she tsked, and sighed. Then she lifted her head, and her gaze, sharp as a hawk's, narrowed. "And he came so highly touted, too. Such a disappointment. Wouldn't you agree, _soldat_?"

The Winter Soldier shrugged slightly from his place next to her, but said nothing in response. It wasn't his mission to offer an opinion on her scientific work. He was here to train her in combat and self-defense, and to protect her from any outside threats while she continued her research, nothing else.

"Pity I can't use you to draw him out," she mused, studying the limp figure on the table again. "Or maybe he simply needs the right incentive in order to comply. Lilah!"

Sinthea's assistant raced into the room, and stopped at Sinthea's side. Her eyes were cast downward to the floor. "Yes ma'am?"

"Hook me up," Sinthea commanded, gesturing at the calibration machine. "I'm going to have to whistle our dear subject out of his pathetic fugue state and start over again. Perhaps the fourth time will be the charm."

"Yes ma'am." Lilah scurried off just as silently as she'd appeared.

Sinthea turned to the Winter Soldier, a speculative gleam in dark eyes. "Stay here and keep watch like a good guard dog, would you."

He pursed his mouth in annoyance – the only emotion he allowed himself to show – but gave a sharp nod of assent. He didn't have to like Sinthea or this job, but orders were orders. And he was curious as to how she was going to break this particular subject – 

 

Bucky jerked awake, his heart pounding, breath coming in short pants, and threw off the sweat-damp sheet, body moving before his brain had a chance to catch up. Both of his hands were shaking as he fumbled with the water pitcher on the nitestand and filled a glass. The cool liquid soothed his ragged throat, and he took one deep, measured breath, then another, inhaling and exhaling slow and even until the tremors ceased. The dream had been so real. He could still taste the medicinal tang in the air, smell Sinthea's light, floral perfume, see the body on the – 

Wait, the body. The machine. The whistle...Jesus, the fucking _whistle_.

The glass clunked on the wooden surface as he straightened, a sharp, surprised sound escaping his lips. That was it. That was – 

"Fuck me, I'm a goddamn idiot," he muttered to himself, and grabbed his sleep pants from the bed railing, and yanked them up over his legs. He was still barefoot and bare-chested, but he didn't bother to slow down for shoes or a shirt. He just ran towards Steve's lab, fueled by desperation and hope.

He burst into the room, practically running through the guards at the door, who'd given him a sharp, silent glance, and skidded to a halt right before he hit the bank of monitors along the wall. Romanov and another girl – a teenager, maybe an apprentice or intern – straightened from a table, where they were bent over a laptop. 

"Something wrong?" Romanov asked, after glancing at Steve's cell. Steve was sitting on his cot, head bowed, his profile in shadow – just as silent and inanimate as ever.

"We need to wake Dr. Denri," Bucky panted, laying a hand on one of the tables to steady himself. "I know how to get Steve back."

"You do?" the girl asked, coming around the table to stand in front of it, slender arms crossed in front of her.

He quickly nodded, all but vibrating out of his skin. Now that he knew what he needed to do, he was itching to get started. "I can bring him out. I just need someone to link us. Like, neurally, or whatever it is."

The intern or apprentice or whoever she was lifted an eyebrow at Romanov, who shrugged in response, then faced Bucky again. "You wish to neurally link yourself to the Captain?" the girl asked.

"Yes." He paused, and frowned. "Wait, you can do that, right?"

She harrumphed. "Of course we can, Mr. Barnes. You've just yet to explain why we should." 

He flicked his gaze to where Steve was still sitting, unmoving, unaware, as much a prisoner as Bucky'd been for decades. He couldn't let Steve down. Not when Bucky knew what he had to do to save him.

He nodded at Romanov. "You said you thought they – Sinthea's group – were trying to find out where I was, right?"

She also crossed the table to stand next to the girl. "Yeah, but –"

"You were right," he told her, with a mirthless smile. "They _were_ trying to get to me. Just...not in the way you were thinking." 

The space between Romanov's brows crinkled. "Elaborate." The order was implicit.

He placed his hands behind his back, spine straightening to attention. "They _wanted_ Steve to be found. They were counting on it. And they were eventually counting on me being there, on even –" He stopped, and laughed at himself, bitterly. "Of course, that's it, they probably _wanted_ me to link neurally to him, God, I've been coming at this all wrong –" 

The girl tilted her head in confusion. "Are you saying you don't wish to be linked with him now?"

He shook his head, impatient. "No, I _have_ to link with him, that's the point. They don't know that I know about the whistle."

"Whistle?" the girl repeated, as Romanov pointed to a nearby chair.

"Sit. Take a deep breath," she instructed, another order, but this one softer. "Then start over from the beginning, and try to make sense this time."

He took the chair, mostly to put them at ease, and tried to compose his thoughts into something resembling cohesion. Every cell in his body kept urging him to hurry, before it was too late.

"Okay, look," he started, sitting forward, elbows on his knees, "it's like this. They want what every other Hydra remnant and wannabe Hydra outfit wants – the Winter Soldier in their control. And the only way to accomplish that is a trigger, right, I mean, it's not a secret that I'm not going back willingly," he said, looking back and forth between the two of them. "Schmidt – Johann – gave his daughter one when I was in her custody."

"Another backup?" the girl guessed, as Romanov added, "Just in case your programming started to break, I imagine."

"Yeah." He nodded, pleased they were keeping up. "They had a hard time letting me out of stasis too long, but some of my missions lasted for weeks, so they needed another way to control me. Several ways," he added, even though that was stating the obvious. 

"And you think Sinthea's group gave Steve that trigger and left him for you to find?"

One thing Bucky'd come to admire about Romanov was how quick she was. "It's been almost a year since Steve found me in Bucharest, and three years since I broke my original programming," he said. "They weren't going to find me on their own – I'm in the best protected place on the planet. _No one_ comes in or out of this country without authorization. So, the only way _to_ get to me –" 

"Is through Steve," Romanov finished. "That's actually smart. It's something I'd do."

"Me too," Bucky replied, quietly. 

"So, you're saying you want us to neurally link you to the Captain so he can try to trigger you so you can save him from _his_ triggers?" The girl arched her brows again. "Is it just me or does that sound completely insane?"

It was a fight to keep his voice even. "I'm sorry, who are you again and why are you here?"

Everyone in the room went completely still. The girl gave him a flat look that looked eerily like the one the Dora Milaje gave him that first night. "Who am _I_?" 

"This is T'Challa's sister, Shuri," Romanov cut in, smoothly. " _Princess_ Shuri." 

Bucky winced, and she responded with a tight smile and a smirk that spoke far more eloquently than words. _Princess Shuri?_ Goddammit. What the hell was she even doing here?

Then he remembered T'Challa mentioning his younger sister was a scientific genius and innovator on par with Stark, if not better. And that she'd been working with Dr. Denri to save Steve. And that she'd been the one in charge of designing his new arm. And he'd come barging in like he owned the place, questioning her like she was some subordinate.

 _Fuck_.

"I'm sorry, I didn't –"

"It is of no consequence," Princess Shuri stated, in a tone that brooked no argument. "I will call Dr. Denri and you can explain yourself to all of us at once. Don't go anywhere," she instructed, and picked up her cell phone.

"You’d have to drag me out of here," he replied, and got up from the chair to walk over to Steve. "Hang on, buddy," he murmured, itching with the need to pull Steve to him and hold him close. "I'm getting you out of this, I promise." 

***

Dr. Denri showed up less than fifteen minutes later, in what looked like pajamas, with a coat thrown hastily over them. "The princess mentioned you're asking to neurally link with the Captain, Mr. Barnes."

Bucky turned from Steve, and gave both Princess Shuri and the doctor a flat look. "Look, no offense, because you guys have been been terrific and are smarter than I'll ever be, but I'm not _asking_. I know how to bring him back."

"So explain how you can do that," Romanov said. She was slouched against the table now, seemingly relaxed except for the hard set to her shoulders and the alertness behind her eyes.

"Sinthea used to have this modified...the only way I can think to describe it is a dog whistle." He started pacing the room, bare feet making no sound on cool linoleum. "When she was brainwashing people or torturing them or whatever you want to call it, she'd use it sometimes if she wasn't getting what she needed from her subjects. It was her way of snapping them out of their own heads so they'd wake up and she could start reprogramming them."

"And you think this same back door reset is in Steve's head?" Dr. Denri asked, a thoughtful look on his face.

"They'd want a way to control him, right, so they could bring him out when they needed him?" he asked, stopping. "I mean, it's what I would do if I had someone as powerful as Steve under my command."

"And we cannot simply modify a whistle and blow it?" Princess Shuri asked. "Why do you need to be linked to him?"

"It's not...it's not a physical whistle." He didn't know any of the technical terms to describe it. All he knew was what he'd paid attention to the four years he'd guarded Sinthea while she'd worked. "It's like...the mental equivalent of a slap to the face or hitting someone over the head."

"A form of cognitive recalibration," Princess Shuri said, lips pursed in thought. "Clever of her."

Dr. Denri nodded, but kept his arms crossed in front of his chest. "There's every chance this won't bring him back. This whistle you speak of might only work if it's given by one of Schmidt's operatives."

"It'll work." Bucky had no idea what he'd do if it didn't.

"It sounds desperate," Dr. Denri replied. "I am not a fan of desperate measures, Mr. Barnes."

"Not to mention, you were saying you think Steve's got a way to trigger you while you're crawling around inside his head," Romanov said. "So what happens if it takes?"

He gestured at her belt, and the Widow's bites dangling from one of the loops. "Pretty sure you know how to use those."

She smirked in response, but her shoulders stayed in a stiff line. "Yeah, that's not exactly reassuring."

He spread his hands out. "I figure you'll be monitoring us, to make sure nothing goes south."

"Of course, but we have no way of knowing what going under will do to you again," Dr. Denri said. "It took us three days to wake you the last time. And you're asking us to do this without running any tests first or assessing any of the variables –"

"It's my brain I'm putting on the line here." The thought of getting stuck back in his head – of getting stuck in a world without Steve – was terrifying, but he didn't let it show on his face. "So I think I should get to decide, don't you?" 

If there was just a one percent chance it would save Steve, he'd do a lot worse, and gladly.

"If you do get triggered and go back into Winter Soldier mode, you might not remember any of this," Princess Shuri added, waving a hand to both him and the room at large. "Just like you don't remember what happened six months ago –"

"Not yet, but the last few days have been pretty hectic," Bucky said, but the reminder was more for himself. Whatever he'd done six months ago – and he had a pretty damn good idea, based on Steve's letter – would come back to him sooner or later. And when it did, he'd bear the burden of it, just like he bore the burden of every other atrocity he'd committed as the Winter Soldier.

Romanov's lips turned down. "And you sure that's a risk you're willing to take?"

He glanced back at Steve, silent and still behind the force field, waiting – _needing_ – someone to rescue him. Something Bucky'd been doing almost all his life. 

"You know it is," he finally replied, and turned beseeching eyes her way. _Please_. I can do this. I can save him. You have to let me try."

Dr. Denri sighed, and looked at Princess Shuri, who only lifted her shoulders. "You already know what my brother would say," she said.

"Indeed I do," Dr. Denri replied, and sighed again, low and long-suffering. "What do you need from us?"

***

 _May 24th, 2016_

_Dear Buck,_

_I don't even know why I'm writing this right now. You've only been under for a day, but already it feels like ~~you've been~~ ~~like I've been~~ ~~like it was~~ – well, anyway, I bought a journal so I could write to you. I thought, well, that maybe I could keep you up to date on things. So when you wake up, you'll know what you missed._

_I guess the first thing is, I'm doing what we talked about. Rescuing the team from The Raft, I mean. You made some great suggestions on the base infiltration and how to get in without being detected. And, I won't lie, it felt good to plan a mission with you again – you always were my best tactician. Hey, you remember when we spent the whole summer trading pranks with the McGregor twins? God, some of the ideas you came up with...ingenious. But then, you always were. I'm glad you were in my corner back then. I'm glad you're still in my corner._

_T'Challa's offered some of his resources and personnel for the op, but – and I can hear you yelling right now and see you rolling your eyes the way you used to when you thought I was acting too stubborn for my own good – I turned him down. He's done more than enough, and besides, this is my fight. I'm the one who brought everyone into this mess, and put their lives and freedom on the line. I have to be the one to make it right. As for what happens after I break them out, I guess that's up to the rest of the team if they want to call it a day. But I still think there's a lot of good we can do. I still think we can make a difference._

_I'm also going to reach out to Tony like you said I should. No idea what I'll say yet, but I'll do my best to let him know that I never wanted any of this. And that I never meant to hurt him by keeping the truth from him, but – I won't lie, Buck. I'd do it all over again if I had to. I know I hurt him and broke his trust, but keeping you safe will always be the bigger priority. I guess you know what that's like. I know you were just trying to keep me safe by not reaching out, and I don't blame you for it. Because I would have done the same thing in your shoes._

_I heard through the grapevine that Rhodes has a long recovery ahead, which, well, if Tony does reach out, I could tell him I know what that's like, too. To be on the sidelines while someone you care about is facing a battle you can't fight alongside them – Sorry, I know, I shouldn't make any of this about you. Or us. You made a choice and I respect it. ~~But it doesn't make it any easier to see you like this~~._

_I'll write again after I get the team back to Wakanda. Don't wake up without me._

_Yours,  
Steve_

***

Bucky's eyes flew open and he swiveled his head from side to side, taking in his surroundings with one sweeping glance. This was...he was...what the fuck? Why was he back on the catwalk of the navigation deck of the helicarrier? The last thing he remembered was drifting to sleep on a cold metal table, Steve lying on one next to him, the two of them linked by a series of wires –

_Steve._

He whipped around, heart in his throat, and saw him standing in front of the targeting system, as frighteningly still here as he was in the real world. Just as large and imposing, with that stubborn tilt to his jaw and that stubborn lock of hair that always swooped across his forehead, but his gaze was implacable, those brilliant blue eyes terrifyingly blank and cold.

And he was wearing Bucky's old Winter Soldier uniform, the tac vest and black pants and boots pulled taut across his body, the outfit a distorted and twisted echo of Bucky's earlier dreams, a premonition of this very moment, where their roles were reversed.

Bucky looked down at himself with a sinking sense of dread, and had to close his eyes to bite back the wave of nausea. He was in Steve's old Captain America uniform, the one Steve had worn that fateful day on the helicarrier, and Steve's shield was in his metal hand.

Why were they here, back in this place, back at this moment in time? Why had Sinthea's soldiers chosen to drop Steve in this particular memory? Had they been trying to figure out where the fight had gone wrong, how Steve had broken through seventy years of Bucky's conditioning and torture, so they could try to reverse it?

"Steve?" he asked, tentative, and Steve's eyes narrowed in recognition, but without any warmth behind it.

" _Ti apozdal_ ," Steve replied, guttural and harsh, without any of Steve's usual inflection or emotion.

Bucky froze, afraid to move. Why was Steve speaking to him in Russian? "Steve, it's me," he tried again. "It's Bucky." 

Steve tilted his head slightly, like he didn't understand what Bucky was telling him. " _Nam para, soldat. Idi syuda_."

The overwhelming urge to comply was instantaneous, the buzz shooting up from the base of his spine to the crown of his head. Bucky's breath shortened in his lungs, the nerves in his legs flaring bright with so much pain he almost crumpled under it. Against his will, almost as if he was being pushed into the eye of a hurricane, he placed one foot forward. And then another. Almost immediately, the pain died down.

The backdoor trigger. _Goddammit_ , he should have anticipated Steve would try to use it first thing.

Across from him, Steve's lips curved in a mockery of a smile. " _Eshe odin shag i vse zakonchetse."_

Bucky tried to lock himself in place, but the sharp agony shooting up his legs was unbearable. The buzzing along his spine spiked, every instinct urging him forward. If he took that step like Steve asked, he knew his agony would end. Every doubt and fear and all of his guilt would end. _Everything_ would end. He just needed to comply –

– _No_. He wasn't going to lose himself again. He was Bucky goddamn Barnes and no one was taking that from him. Not even Steve.

"Steve, please.... _please_ don't make me do this." The second he ground out the plea, he was thrown back to that day three years ago, hearing Steve's anguished voice echoing the same plea in his ears.

_A lot of people are gonna die...please don't make me do this._

This – the helicarrier, Steve's outfit, even the goddamn trigger words, they weren't _real_. The words held no power over him. The real Steve was safe in Wakanda, and they were both under the watchful eyes of three of the smartest people on the planet, and nothing about this was happening. This was just the last gasping _fuck you_ of a dead woman and her insane group of followers. And Bucky had loved Steve for a lifetime, even if it had taken him over seventy years to figure out exactly what that meant. His claim was far stronger than any amount of brainwashing or torture Sinthea's people could have administered. Bucky and Steve – their lives were entwined from birth, the bond between them the foundation upon which they'd built their entire lives.

Steve Rogers was _his_ , and he'd be damned if he was giving that up without one hell of a battle. He'd already failed Steve so many times. He couldn't do it again.

Steve frowned when Bucky didn't move. "That should have worked," he commented, switching to English.

"Sorry to disappoint you," Bucky replied, surreptitiously shifting the shield in his hand, every particle of his body on the highest alert. "You have to fight this," he said, as Steve started marching forward with dead eyes and clenched fists. "I know you're still in there."

"You're still my mission," Steve stated, flat and glacial, the chill of it blasting through the space between them. "Either you comply or you die here."

God, this was the worst sort of déjà vu, Bucky's most hellish nightmare playing out in front of him in vivid color. Why the hell were they _here_ , of all the places and all the times?

"I'm your _friend_ ," he said, his heart breaking for everything he'd put Steve through, and all the ways he was hurting Steve still. If only he'd died when he'd fallen from that fucking train, he could have spared them both – and countless others – so much misery. But he hadn't, and if this was the reason he'd survived – so he could save Steve one last time – then he couldn't think of a more fitting end.

He'd always assumed he was going to die protecting Steve, anyway.

Steve came in hard and fast, a mack truck disguised as a person, and it was only Bucky's quick reflexes that saved him from getting his head caved in by the force of Steve's punch. As it was, the glancing blow sent him staggering back a half-dozen steps, left him woozy in its wake. For something that wasn't real, it sure as hell _felt_ like he had a concussion.

"I'm not gonna fight you, Steve." He belatedly remembered he had the shield still in his hand, and used it to block the next punch, deflected the kick to his legs by rolling backwards and springing to his feet.

"Then you'll die," Steve said, in that same eerily cold monotone, so different than the fire and fight that brimmed out of Steve's every pore, a constant current that electrified everything he was.

"It's Bucky, please, c'mon, you need to fight this –" He ducked out of the next strike, feinted left, then right, looking for a weakness in Steve's stance, something to exploit. He didn't want to fight him, but he knew how to incapacitate an opponent, if needed.

He didn't want to hurt Steve, but he'd do it in a heartbeat to save him.

"I have my orders." Another punch, another kick, each one harder than the last, the reverberations echoing through the vibranium of the shield every time he threw it up to stave off Steve's attack.

God, this really was a funhouse mirror version of that long ago fight on the helicarrier. Was this how Steve had felt, that same mixture of despair and determination coursing through him, dictating his every move?

"Steve, please, I'm sorry I ran, okay, I'm sorry I never reached out to you, I'm sorry I never gave you a chance to _be_ there for me..." Bucky was babbling now, parrying every strike, but not taking any shots of his own. He _didn't_ want to hurt Steve, even if it wasn't real. He'd put Steve through enough.

"I'm here now, I'm here, no more running –" He tripped, going down hard on his back, the shield slipping out of his grasp to fall over the edge of the catwalk.

Steve pounced, a shark sensing blood in the water, and swung down at full speed. "I have my mission."

Bucky blocked the blow, grabbing Steve's hand with his metal one to stop him, the force vibrating up his arm. Steve glared, thunderous, and yanked out of Bucky's grip. Bucky raised his head, committed every one of Steve's features to memory, just in case it was the last time. This had to work. It _had_ to. But, if it didn't, he'd rather die at Steve's hand than try to live without him.

"I'm with you to the end of the fucking line, okay, I'm _here_ ," he said, and put his lips together, the whistle as ear-piercing as he remembered from his earlier dreams. Immediately, his ears started ringing, the sound shrill and galloping through his system like thunder.

The fist raised at his face paused in mid-swing. "What did you say?" Steve asked, his brows furrowing in confusion, but otherwise, he showed no emotion and no sign at all that he could hear the ringing.

Why wasn't the whistle working? When Sinthea had utilized it, the results had been almost instantaneous.

"Please, Steve –" Bucky licked dry lips, fighting back both the nausea and the panic. He could barely hear himself over the noise, let alone Steve. "We made a promise. Come back to me, please –" 

Steve was still crouched over him, rock-still, fist still cocked back, face shuttered and still terrifyingly blank. Was this what Steve had seen, when Bucky'd been the one with his fist raised, poised and ready to strike? " _What_ did you say?" Steve repeated, his voice sharper now, rough.

The whistle echoed around them, caroming off the steel beams, the sheer volume filling every bit of space, and still, nothing was happening, it wasn't working, he'd failed – 

"Please, Steve, I need you to come back to me, I can't do this without you." The ringing was so shrill now that he had to shout over it, desperation cracking his voice. "I'm begging, please, I love you, just –"

There was a sharp inhale and Steve's fist shook as his face abruptly shifted, mouth going slack, the hard set of his eyes replaced by something lost and broken. Bucky held his breath, as Steve slowly lowered his arm, his head cocked like a question. "Buck?"

"Yeah, Steve, it's me," he said, trying to make himself heard over the ringing, so loud it seemed to shake the very foundations of the universe, "It's Bucky, I've got you, I'm _here_ , please –"

– and the next moment, Steve was curled forward in his lap, shoulders shaking, breath coming out in short, hard bursts, Bucky holding on as tight as he could as the world went black around them – 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ti apozdal_ \- You're late
> 
>  _Nam para, soldat. Idi syuda_ \- It's time, soldier. Come here.
> 
>  _Eshe odin shag i vse zakonchetse_ \- Just one more step and this will all be over
> 
> Russian translations courtesy of the lovely [SilentWalrus1](https://silentwalrus1.tumblr.com/) :)


	6. Chapter 6

_June 23rd, 2016_

_Dear Buck,_

_Sorry it's been a couple of weeks, but I had a quick mission to Nepal – don't worry, it was a quick in and out fact-finding mission, nothing serious – and since I've been back, Sam and I have been doing some training with the Dora Milaje. Which, just between me and you, has been kicking my ass in the best way possible. It's been sort of like being in Basic back at Camp Lehigh all over again. Most nights, I've barely had the energy to shovel in some grub before I pass out, let alone try to organize my thoughts to write them down. But it's been a lot of fun, too. Yeah, I know, I can already hear you saying my sense of fun is skewed, but it's the truth. I dunno how to describe it, but it's been nice to just not be the best at something for a little bit. To have to pay attention and ask questions and work through the moves one step at a time. Makes me feel normal, I guess._

_Wanda's been by to see you a couple of times. She says you're at peace – at least, that was the way she described it. She didn't delve down too deep in her probe, so your secrets are still safe, in case you were worried about that. But she thinks she might be able to help look for anomalies in your brainwaves that regular scans won't pick up. Frankly, I only understand about half of what she and Dr. A'kane and Shuri are talking about at any given moment, although they've been very patient about walking me through everything they're doing for you._

_It all sounds so fantastical – like the stories we used to read in the rags when we were kids. Everything they can do, the way Wanda can scan minds and use energy, the way Shuri can manipulate vibranium and the tech she's able to create, it's like magic. But magic and science, I guess, they're two sides of the same coin when you get right down to it._

_I've also been trying to convince Scott and Clint to go home permanently, but Clint's threatened to shoot me the next time I say it, and Scott just looks at me like I'm not speaking English, so I've stopped for the time being. But you know – they've got kids, Buck. And I know what we do is important, but at some point, it's gotta be enough, right? Which reminds me of something Tony once told me, back before – before all of this. That the reason he put on the suit in the first place was so that one day he could take it off and just be Tony Stark again. That one day the war would be over, and it would be time to start living for himself again._

_You and me, though, I guess we never had that luxury. Even after everything that's happened – even without the uniforms – we're still fighting. Still soldiers in a war that feels like it's never gonna end. And I wonder sometimes if maybe that's one reason why you chose to stop and go under again – just to make it all stop, if only for a little while. I don't blame you, by the way. If anyone's earned some rest, it's you. I guess I just...sometimes I wish I knew what that felt like._

_Sorry this got so – what's the word you used to use – maudlin, that's it. I think the day's just catching up to me._

_I'll come by for a nice long visit tomorrow, and I promise to try to be in a better mood._

_Yours,  
Steve_

***

Bucky drifted into awareness to the steady beep of a heart monitor and the soft hum of machinery. Every single atom in his body ached, from his scalp to his pinky toes, a dull throbbing pain that permeated every muscle, every cell, even his blood. Just trying to shift his body on the bed was a herculean task, let alone trying to actually move. But he still managed to crack open dry lips and force a few gravelly words out of his throat. "Steve...is he...?"

A cool hand rested over his brow. "The Captain is safe and resting," a soft voice assured him. "Go back to sleep."

He let out a sigh, the tension seeping out of his body, and was out before he could form another thought.

The next time he woke, he was still sore and aching, like he'd gone a few rounds with a grizzly bear or maybe the Hulk, but he didn't feel like he was going to pass out again. When he was finally able to pry his eyes open, the first form that swam into view was Princess Shuri, bent over a tablet, fingers flying over the keys. Beside her, Dr. Denri was also tapping away on another tablet; they both looked exhausted, the lines of their shoulders drooping, their mouths thin and pinched. 

"That bad?" Bucky croaked.

Princess Shuri's head shot up, her lips forming a small smile of relief. "Mr. Barnes, it is good to see you."

Dr. Denri set his tablet down and walked over to the bed, picking up Bucky's right hand to take his pulse. "How are you feeling?" 

"Like shit." Bucky tried lifting his head, but gave it up for a bad idea in favor of lying very still and breathing out of his mouth until his stomach settled and the spots dissipated in his vision. 

"The nausea should fade in a few minutes," Dr. Denri said, and let go of his wrist.

Princess Shuri made a notation, flicking over the screens with a swipe of her finger. "Can you move at all, Mr. Barnes?"

He tried shifting again, and let out another small whimper. He really hoped she wasn't going to ask him for a demonstration. "My entire body is yelling at me, but yeah."

"An improvement, then." Princess Shuri laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You had us very worried for awhile there."

"I did?" he asked, dumbly, then his eyes widened. "Wait, where's...is Steve okay?" He'd had Steve with him when everything on the helicarrier had gone dark, but Steve wasn't in the room with him, which, fuck, what if – 

"Yes, you were successful," Dr. Denri said, quelling Bucky's impending panic attack. 

"He's resting in the next room," Princess Shuri added. "We're monitoring his vitals, but he's stable. Whatever you did seems to have done the trick."

"Good." He wanted to race to Steve's side, but just the _idea_ of standing made him dizzy, so he gave himself another minute – okay, maybe two – to get his bearings. "How long, uh, was I, um, in...?"

"How long were you in the Captain's mind?" Princess Shuri guessed.

"Yeah," Bucky answered, lolling his head on the pillow. "It only felt like a few minutes, but –"

"You and the Captain were under for five hours, and you've been recovering for almost two days," Dr. Denri told him, not unkindly.

"Five _hours_?" Bucky repeated, stunned. His head started spinning for an entirely different reason. "Two _days_? Jesus." 

No wonder he felt like roadkill.

"Yes, you were very fortunate –" Princess Shuri broke off as Sam Wilson strode into the room, his brows pulled together, his body a tight, stiff line of annoyance. "Mr. Wilson."

"Your Highness," Wilson replied, with a quick nod of his head. Then he jabbed a finger at Bucky. "You were _supposed_ to keep me in the goddamn loop, Barnes," he started, not bothering to temper his tone. 

"If you're gonna yell at me, can you at least wait until I'm... _something_ ," Bucky replied, feebly waving his hand. 

"Nope, you're gonna hear it now while you're not in a position to run away."

"I believe I shall check in on the Captain," Dr. Denri said, and beat a hasty retreat. Bucky envied him. 

"You're goddamn lucky I'm not the sort to punch a man when he's down," Wilson said, irritation crackling under every bitten off word, "but you know Steve's gonna kick your ass the first chance he gets."

Bucky snorted, as he struggled to a sitting position. Even that small act was enough to tire him out, although he'd be damned if he'd admit it, especially in front of Wilson. "Well, he's got no room to talk."

Wilson crossed his arms over his chest and hmphed. "I thought you were supposed to be the smarter one," he replied. "You were under way too long, man, you could have been stuck in your head or Steve's or –"

Bucky waved in Princess Shuri's direction, who was watching the two of them bicker with barely concealed amusement. "I was under supervision the entire time."

Wilson shook his head. "Yeah, and they weren't able to pull you out when your vitals went all haywire and you both coded."

"Coded?" Bucky asked, faintly. 

"Yeah, you both flatlined." Wilson turned to Princess Shuri, and gestured. "Tell him."

"Mr. Wilson is right," she admitted, with a small shrug. "We were getting ready to sever the connection when you both stabilized."

Bucky scrubbed a shaking hand over his face. Flatlined. Holy shit. "Look, I'm sorry, okay, I just...the whistle didn't work at first, so I had to get...creative." 

"If the whistle didn't work, what did?" Princess Shuri asked, cocking her head curiously.

Bucky could feel his face flush. _I'm with you to the end of the line, okay...I can't do this without you...I love you..._

"Uh, I don't remember," he lied, praying like hell neither she nor Wilson would call him out on it. He knew he'd have to tell someone eventually, but he wasn't anywhere near ready for that particular conversation.

"Uh huh." Wilson shook his head. "Y'all two idiots deserve each other," he muttered.

Bucky couldn't exactly say he disagreed.

***

_May 29th, 2016_

_Dear Buck,_

_I'm writing from the quinjet – Clint insisted on piloting and he's certainly more qualified to fly it than I am, since he's the one who taught me how to operate it. But, I'm getting ahead of myself. I guess I should have started by letting you know Operation A-Team was a success (that's what Sam's calling it – I'm not sure what he's talking about, but apparently it's a TV show that's now on my list of things to watch). Breaking into the compound and overriding the security was easier than I thought it would be, in fact. I'm not sure if it's just a lack of discipline among the troops or if there was someone on the inside who wanted to make this easier for me, but I'm grateful, whatever the reason._

_Sam asked about you straight off, by the way. He wondered why you weren't with me, and I don't guess it'll be a surprise to you to learn he wasn't too happy when I told him what you did. I know the two of you got off on the wrong foot, but I think you'll both get along once you're back with the rest of us. Sam's a good man. He reminds me a little of Billy Kendall – you remember him, right? Same sense of humor and same optimism, and he's one helluva soldier, to boot. He's been a great friend the last couple of years._

_Scott and Wanda are both asleep, which is good. They didn't look so hot when I showed up, Wanda especially. Between you and me, Buck, I'm a little worried about her. She's so young, but sometimes, the way she looks at me, I swear, she's older than you and me combined. She's had a pretty rough go of it – well before von Strucker got hold of her and her brother – and whatever life and stability she managed to build for herself since Pietro died has been yanked out from under her. ~~Just like you.~~_

_If you were here, I know you'd know what to say, how to put everyone at ease and make everything alright. You were always better at keeping up morale. I do the best I can, but I never had your gift for it. I guess not that much has changed._

_I'll check in on you when we get back. Hopefully there's been some progress, at least on your arm design. I know it'll be tricky, replacing it, but you've got the best team in the world on the job, and I'll be supervising every step of the way, just like we talked about._

_I'll see you soon._

_Yours,  
Steve_

***

It was another two hours before Bucky felt steady enough to slowly shuffle his way down the hall to the room next door. (The less said about how long it took him to make the trip, the better.) Dr. A'kane was looking over a set of monitors along one wall and Steve was lying on a bed next to her, chest rising and falling with steady breaths, his eyes closed, but relaxed. There was color on his cheeks and the energy that was as much a part of Steve as the color of his eyes or the cut of his jaw seemed to emanate from him in rolling waves. Already worlds different than the last time Bucky'd laid eyes on him.

"How's he doing?" Bucky quietly asked, dragging himself forward by sheer will alone in order to stand beside Dr. A'kane.

"He'll live." She offered a tired shrug. "The conditioning and torture he suffered did substantial damage, but the physical wounds healed rather quickly. We'll have to wait and see if there are any lingering mental or psychological issues."

"What does that mean?" Had he been too late, after all? If only he'd woken up sooner, or gone with Steve on the mission or hadn't gone into cryo in the first place, maybe Steve would be – 

"It simply means we need to give Captain Rogers time to process what's happened to him," Dr. A'kane said, giving him a brief, but pointed, look. "We are all of us shaped and scarred in equal measure by events that have happened to us. It's impossible to say which of those moments will leave a lasting mark and which will skim over us like skipping stones across a lake."

"In other words, don't beat myself up over something that's not mine to fix?" The guilt still sat heavy on his chest, but he could add it to his other baggage. It was a small enough price to pay to have Steve back with him, where he belonged.

She smiled. "Yes. All your friend requires from you is to be there and to listen if and when he's ready to talk."

He flinched as the words hit their mark. "Which is more than what I did for him before I went under, you mean."

"That is not what I mean at all," she replied, the rebuke mild. "You were not ready to unburden yourself before, and the Captain understood and respected your decision."

"Yeah, I'm not so sure about that."

She gave him another stern look that wouldn't have looked out of place coming from his own mother. "I believe that would be for him to decide, not you." 

Bucky swallowed, chastened. It was well past time he stopped projecting his guilt onto Steve. "You're right."

Her lips curved up. "I usually am."

He stepped forward before he could talk himself out of it, and pulled her into a rough hug. "Thank you," he murmured. "I can't thank you enough, for everything you've done. For me and Steve."

She patted his back, and gave him another soft smile. "Just promise me you'll continue to get the help you need, and that you'll encourage the Captain to do the same."

"I promise." Now that he had Steve back, he was willing to do whatever it took to get better. To _be_ there for Steve like he'd promised all those years ago. Even if he had to live with the trigger words in his head, maybe there was some way he could fight them or neutralize them or...hell, he didn't know. What he _did_ know was he was done running.

She rested her hand on his shoulder, the touch gentle, another comfort. "I'll give you two a minute," she said, and quietly left the room.

Bucky sank onto the chair by Steve's bedside, grateful to be off still-wobbly feet. The only sounds in the room were his and Steve's steady, even breaths – and this, at least, was familiar. Bucky'd spent so many countless hours growing up keeping vigil at Steve's bedside that it was a small shock to look over and see Steve in his bigger and stronger body. 

He took his time studying Steve, the way absurdly long, sooty lashes fanned across closed eyelids like fairy wings, the lush fullness of Steve's lips, lax in sleep, the way his brows crinkled every time he shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position. He inched his fingers across the bed until his palm brushed against Steve's, the touch deliberately light. As much as he yearned to run his hands over every inch of Steve's body he could reach, just to reassure himself that Steve was really there, he didn't want to disturb Steve's recovery. Instead, he contented himself with skimming his fingers across Steve's, basked in the warmth of Steve's skin against his own, the tangibility of it settling over him like an anchor. A tether reminding him that this was _real_. He and Steve were together, finally, neither of them hidden behind glass or a force field, neither of them lost inside a nightmare not of their own making.

"When you wake up...we've got a lot to talk about," he murmured, keeping his voice low, barely audible even to his own ears. "And I'll be here, right by your side, that's a promise. I know I've let you down, I know I wasn't there when you needed me...and jeez, your letters, I had no idea how much I hurt you and I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I –"

He cut himself off, taking a deep, calming breath. Closed his eyes and counted to ten to try to center himself. He couldn't live in the past, buried under the crushing weight of all of his past mistakes. All he could do was try to do better from this day forward. To be the man Steve needed him to be.

When he opened his eyes again, Steve was groggily staring at him, his forehead scrunched up in confusion. "Buck?" he asked, barely a whisper. "Izzat...really you?"

Bucky had to blink back the sudden welling of tears. Christ, he'd missed the sound of his name on Steve's tongue. "Yeah, Steve, it's me," he said, laying his hand fully over Steve's, grounding them both to the here and now. "Sorry if I woke you."

Steve's exhale turned into a long, pained moan. "Fuck, I feel like...I've been hit by a tank. Several tanks."

Bucky cracked a relieved smile. "Yeah, I know the feeling."

Steve's hand flexed under his. "You...should _you_ be up?"

"Awake barely a minute and trying to boss me around already," Bucky lamented, but smiled to let Steve know he was teasing. 

"Sorry. But you..." Steve's tongue flicked out to wet cracked lips. "You're okay?"

"I am now," Bucky said, and gave in to the urge to brush a few hairs from Steve's forehead. "But if you ever do anything like that again, I'll do worse than kick your ass."

"Buck –"

"They had you over six _weeks_ ," Bucky continued, worry hardening his voice to tempered steel. "That's...they've broken down people in half that time, twisted them around until they would have killed their own families and not even blinked."

"I know," Steve said, small, contrite. "I'm sorry, Buck, I wasn't –"

"You know, I told myself the second I made sure you were okay and safe, I was going to punch you right in the mouth for making me worry, but it'd be like punching a puppy right now," Bucky said, gesturing at him. He didn't mention the fact that he could barely make a fist himself. "But as soon as you're up on your feet, I owe you one."

Steve let out a pained chuckle, even as he flipped his hand so he could lace his fingers in Bucky's. "Yeah, I think I'll, uh, take a raincheck," he replied, then lolled his head on the pillow, brilliant blue eyes pinning Bucky in place. "Thought I was just...dreaming you. Earlier."

"You kinda were, but I was also in your head, too. It's...complicated."

Steve gave a small laugh. " _Us_? Complicated?"

"Yeah, I know, who'd've thought?" Bucky replied, with his own relieved laugh. They really were a pair. Bucky wouldn't have them any other way. He trailed his fingers along Steve's cheek, allowed himself another moment to soak in the softness of Steve's skin, then reluctantly pulled away. "I should let you get some more rest."

They'd have time, he reminded himself. He should let Steve sleep, let him heal. But he couldn't quite bring himself to get up and leave the room, and not just because his legs were still shaky.

"I don't want to go to sleep." Steve shifted so he was propped up a little more on his pillow. "You...you're _here_."

Bucky knew exactly what Steve meant. He was pretty much afraid to even blink, just in case Steve disappeared. He smiled, tremulous and fragile, to give himself a moment to compose his thoughts. "I'm so sorry it took me so long to make my way back to you."

Steve's eyes went soft. "S'okay, you did what you needed to do," he said, then the corners of his mouth turned down. "But...the...your triggers? Were they able to get rid of them or –?"

"No. They're still rattling around up in here." He squeezed Steve's fingers, reveled in the warmth and the strength when Steve squeezed back. "But we can talk about that later, when you're feeling more like yourself."

"I'm fine, we can..." Steve started to lift himself up, then fell back to the pillow with another groan. "Yeah, okay...just...gimme a second. To...catch my breath."

"A second, huh?" Bucky asked, his heart so full it felt like it would burst in his chest. "You do realize a newborn baby could take you right now."

"That's..." Steve let out a tiny laugh and nodded to concede the point. "Yeah, okay, that's not entirely inaccurate."

Bucky just rolled his eyes, fond. "How much do you remember?"

"About what happened when I was captured?" Steve asked, mouth pursing. "Honestly? Just...a few flashes. Every time I try to think about it, it's sort of...like trying to grab hold of fog."

"Don't try to push it." Either the memories would come or they wouldn't, but Bucky knew firsthand that trying to force them into being would only cause more damage in the long run.

Steve, however, didn't pay him any attention. "I remember...there was a table, and a machine, and someone speaking to me in Russian...but the second I figured out what they were...that they were trying to scramble my brain so I'd go after you, I just...retreated." Steve tapped his temple with his free hand. "Locked myself up somewhere I knew only you would find me."

"You...to the memory of the _helicarrier_?" Bucky asked, aghast. "Jesus Christ, Steve, what the _fuck_."

"I knew you'd find me there," Steve replied, like it was the simplest thing in the world. "And that you'd know what to do to make me remember who I was."

"And you..." Bucky forced the words out through a locked throat. "You thought me – us – reliving one of the worst days of my life was –"

"Worst?" Steve asked. 

He had to be hurting Steve with how tightly he'd clamped down on Steve's fingers, but he couldn't move. "I almost _killed_ you that day –" 

Steve shook his head. "No, Buck – that was the beginning," he argued. "That was the day I got you back."

"But you didn't," Bucky stressed, frustrated by Steve's stubbornness. "I left you on that riverbank, when I should have trusted you, and...I should have told you about Karpov from the start." Maybe if he had, King T'Chaka and a lot of other innocent people would be alive.

"What are you talking about?" Steve pushed himself to a full sitting position, only the white lines around his mouth betraying the effort it took. "I never gave you a reason to trust me –" 

"Yeah, well, I never even gave you a chance to _earn_ my trust, did I." If it was the last thing Bucky did, he'd make sure Steve knew that. Nothing that happened was Steve's doing, and he needed to stop carrying that burden. "I _knew_ the trigger words were still in my head. I knew Hydra had a way to control me. And instead of finding you after Project Insight failed...instead of _trusting_ you like I should have – like you _earned_ – I ran as far and as fast as I could and I didn't tell anyone, and I didn't warn anyone. Maybe if I had, there would have been...some sort of safety mechanism in place –"

"You can't put that sort of pressure on yourself," Steve protested, rolling his shoulders like he was ready to jump out of bed and fight Bucky on it. Which would be a very neat trick, seeing as how he could still barely move.

"That's rich, coming from you," he replied, sardonically.

"I mean it, you had your reasons," Steve insisted. "You had to put yourself first."

"Maybe so, but it's also beside the point," Bucky said, with an inward sigh. This was just like old times, and God, he adored every inch of Steve's stubborn, loyal-to-a-fault soul, and would until the day he died for real, but he hadn't missed these arguments at all. "The choice I made...that _is_ my burden, and I'll carry it."

"Buck, I don't think I could take it if you went under again. I can't...I just..." Steve looked shattered, and so very lost. A look Bucky never wanted to see again, as long as he lived. 

"Hey, I wasn't planning on it, okay, I promise," Bucky vowed, bringing Steve's hand up to place a kiss to his knuckles. Work-rough and callused and perfect. "Whatever's going on in my head, we'll deal with it the old-fashioned way, alright. Dr. A'kane mentioned therapy, so I'll try that or, I dunno, meditation or...deep breathing. Yoga. Something. And...when you're better, we'll deal with Sinthea's team together, too."

They were still out there, still dangerous. But maybe, between the two of them, and Steve's band of friends, they could hatch a plan that would neutralize them.

"That sounds...it's fucked up, but...that sounds perfect," Steve murmured, letting out a deep, shuddering breath. 

"Well, the way I see it, we both owe them some payback," Bucky said, with a shrug. "And since they were the ones financing Rumlow's mission in Lagos for the bio-weapon, they probably still want to use it for something. So we could probably work backwards, maybe track down whatever equipment they'd need to buy or steal to house it safely, or maybe –"

"Sounds like you've thought a lot about this," Steve interrupted, with a look on his face that Bucky couldn't quite decipher.

Bucky nodded. "They had you six weeks." He figured he didn't need to say anything else.

The corners of Steve's mouth trembled at the edges. "I...you don't owe me or – or the world a goddamn thing, but it...it means a lot that you'd...that you'd do this."

"You're wrong, but, well...we'll wait until you're up on your feet to have that talk." Bucky patted Steve's shoulder, the touch lingering. The last thing he wanted to do was leave, but he knew Steve needed more rest. For that matter, he could do with a few more hours of shut-eye himself. "Dr. A'kane'll probably yell at me for keeping you up."

"Yeah, I guess," Steve said, then narrowed his eyes, his focus now razor-sharp as he grabbed Bucky's hand again to keep him from standing. "But...next time I see you, we're gonna talk about what you told me when we were...in my head, right?"

Bucky froze in place. For a long, drawn out moment, he was back on the catwalk, Steve's fist raised to strike, his face a terrifying blank. _I'm with you to the end of the line, okay...I can't do this without you..._

_...I love you..._

"You should get some sleep," he said, and eased out of Steve's hold. 

Steve made another half-hearted grab, but Bucky just stepped out of reach. "Buck, come on..."

Bucky shook his head, stopping Steve before he could push a conversation that really would change everything. He wanted, so badly, to erase the distance between them, but they both needed time to think about what either of them wanted before they took that final, irrevocable step. Bucky wasn't going to rush this, not now that he and Steve both finally had the luxury of time

"I'll be back tomorrow, okay," he said, clenching his fists to keep from stepping forward. We'll talk then, I promise." 

Steve swallowed, but nodded. "Okay."

Walking out the door was the hardest thing Bucky had ever done.

***


	7. Chapter 7

_October 13th, 2016_

_Dear Buck,_

_Just a quick letter today – I'm en route to follow another lead on another one of Karpov's men (no, before you yell at me, I'm not writing while flying, I've got Sam with me), but I've got a few minutes before we land, and I thought you might appreciate hearing from me._

_I'm not getting my hopes up that this mission will lead to any meaningful intel, but I gotta keep going out there. I gotta keep trying. You deserve nothing less. I just wish there was more I could do, some other way I could help you. You know me, I'm no good sitting on the sidelines. I need to do something._

_And maybe this'll be more than just yet another dead end. Maybe we'll get some actual solid information, something tangible for Dr. A'kane and Shuri to work with. I can't help but think that every day you're under, it'll be harder to bring you back out. And I know there's no reason to think that, but I still worry that I'm losing you for good._

_I'm sorry, I shouldn't even be writing this. I'll probably just rip these pages out before I let you see the journal – you shouldn't have to bear the brunt of my skepticism or negative thoughts. You've got so much on your plate and your recovery to focus on. You shouldn't have to worry about me anymore. I'm squared away, I promise._

_It's just hard to see you like this. Especially when I remember that this is partially my fault. I let you fall, I didn't try to find you after, I didn't search for you hard enough after the Triskelion crashed. Maybe if I had, we could have found Karpov first. Maybe we both could have approached Tony the right way and eased him into the truth about how his parents died._

_I know, I know, I can hear you already telling me it's pointless to think about the what ifs and the what might've beens. All I can promise now is to do better by you, and help you however you need. And I want you to know I'm trying, I really am. Maybe it'll never be enough, but I won't stop._

_I miss you. ~~I don't think you know how much~~_

_Yours,  
Steve_

*** 

Despite Bucky's exhaustion, sleep didn't come. He tossed and turned in his bed, trying to find a comfortable position, but it was no use. Every time he closed his eyes, he was right back on the helicarrier – both the real one and the one in Steve's head – with either Steve's battered, bloody face underneath him, or Steve's hard, cold mask above him. Bucky had come so close both times to losing Steve for good, to making his nightmares a painful truth. To waking up to a dark reality where Steve was just a voice in his head and some words on a page, instead of flesh and bone. He wondered how long it would be before he could sleep without those memories haunting him. 

It didn't help that he kept reliving the look Steve had given him yesterday, right before Bucky had bolted _again_. Disappointment and reproach, and still, under it, so much hope – God, how the hell could Steve still have so much faith in him after everything that had happened? After all of the ways Bucky'd failed him, Steve still _trusted_ Bucky's word. Another gift he wasn't sure how to accept.

Just before dawn, he finally gave up on getting any rest, and pulled on a pair of sleep pants and a henley. Maybe some fresh air would help. He still made a point to silently peek into Steve's room to make sure that he was, at least, resting and recovering. Steve was lying in bed, much like the last time Bucky'd seen him, but the difference that just a day made was remarkable. There was color in his cheeks now, his breaths were nice and even, and the white of his tank top showed off sun-kissed skin and strong shoulders and arms. 

And just _seeing_ Steve with his own two eyes was enough to settle the ache in Bucky's chest. They were both still here; there was still time. 

He crept back out into the dimly lit hallway, then made his way up the winding stairs to the landing at the top of the tower. The sun was just cresting over the top of the mountain beyond the waterfalls, brilliant golds and reds and pinks spilling out over the crags and valleys, and the breeze had a bite to it, but Bucky didn't mind the chill. The air here was sharp, clean, so pure it almost hurt his lungs every time he inhaled. He took a few minutes to do just that – to just stand at the stone railing and breathe and be still.

It felt like he'd barely had time to think since he'd woken up, let alone ruminate on what he wanted to do with his life, or what he wanted it to look like. He hadn't planned on coming out of cryo until they'd fixed his head once and for all, but going back under was no longer an option, not if he meant to keep his promise to Steve. And he couldn't hide away in Wakanda forever – not if he wanted to keep what was left of his sanity. 

But there also wasn't much point in moving on until he had somewhere to go. Until he'd mapped out a future he could work towards. And he wanted – desperately so – for that future to include Steve, for them to figure out a way to be together, however they could, if that was something Steve wanted now. (He thought it was, but he wasn't taking anything for granted.) Bucky didn't mind being a fugitive or hunting down bad guys or living rough. He and Steve had never had a soft life, and he wouldn't know how to live one anyway.

But there were so many drawbacks to consider, as well. They were both wanted men, and the target on Bucky's back was too big to ignore. Was it fair to ask Steve to live a life on the run, constantly looking over his shoulder, always sleeping with one eye open, just in case? Sure, Steve's letters had made it clear he'd choose Bucky over his friends or rebuilding his old life, but what if that was just nostalgia talking? What if the reality was too much for him to bear? What if Steve started to miss the shield, miss being Captain America, or wanted his old life back? 

He sighed as his gaze swept over the endless horizon. So many choices, so many variables to consider. And he owed it to Steve to talk to him first before he made any final decisions. But it was hard not to think about all of the ways this could blow up spectacularly in their faces. Hard to trust that they could find a way to make it work – to make _them_ work, however that may be – when there were so many odds against them. Harder still to convince himself that anything that had happened since he'd woken up was real in the first place. 

He was interrupted from his thoughts when he saw Wanda slowly coming up the stairs, cradling two steaming coffee mugs in her hands. "Good morning," she said, and handed him one of the mugs. "I had a feeling I would find you here."

She was still in her pajamas, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, her face scrubbed clean. She looked young – far too young to have so much responsibility on her shoulders. Had he and Steve ever been that young, even back before the War? It was hard to remember a time when they were ever innocent, when the world had been filled with possibilities instead of prisons.

She joined him at the stone railing, leaning out to look over the edge. Her profile was serene in the early morning light. "Did you sleep at all?"

He took a long sip of the coffee, relishing the bitter taste on his tongue and warmth that spread through him, and shook his head. "No," he told her, opting for honesty. He wasn't sure he'd know how to lie to her.

"Do you feel like talking about it?"

"Were my thoughts too loud? Was I keeping you up?" Bucky had no idea how her powers worked, but it wouldn't surprise him if she'd been able to sense his mood from the other side of the palace.

She smiled over the rim of her mug, chipped black nails tapping a steady beat against the ceramic. "It doesn't really work like that." 

"Then how'd you know where I was?" Or that he needed someone to keep him from running in circles inside his own head, unable to see a way out of the maze.

Her sidelong glance was more than a little impish. "Because this is where Steve used to come when the walls started to close in on him."

"Oh." Bucky huffed out an ironic laugh and looked out to the waterfalls with fresh eyes. No wonder he'd felt so connected to Steve up here. "I know it probably doesn't mean much, considering, but I'm glad he had you guys. While I was, um. Away, I guess." He shrugged, and fell silent. It didn't make up for his abandonment, not by a long shot, but at least Steve hadn't been alone the entire time. He'd had friends. 

Wanda just shook her head, her expression infinitely patient and gentle. "You have us, too, you know. If you want."

He'd done nothing at all to earn her friendship, yet here she was, offering it just the same. It was more than a little humbling. "I'm just...I'm not sure if I can trust this," he admitted, repaying her gift with another truth.

"How do you mean?"

"For starters, how do I even know this is real?" He swept his free hand out to encompass the view, the palace, hell, the entire country, while he was at it. "What if it's not? What if I'm still under, and this is all...like, some weird dream. Another fucked up trigger of Hydra's meant to, I don't know, keep me pliant?"

What if the shimmering possibility of being with Steve – truly being with him – was just another mirage, and he was locked in a cell somewhere, trapped inside his own head.

She lifted her shoulders, seemingly unconcerned, and glanced at him again. "Reality is what you make of it. And so far, you've done pretty well in noticing the differences between your sleeping world and the waking one."

He heard what she was really saying, underneath her benign tone. _Trust your instincts._ But how could he do that after he'd been wiped and remade so many times? How could he trust anything, especially himself. 

"Say you're right," he said, cradling his mug in both hands, letting the heat seep into his metal one. "Say this is actually happening. Say I believe I can finally have Steve..." He stumbled slightly over the words, ones he'd never dared think, even in his most private moments, let alone ever said out loud. "What if I snap again or I get retriggered and, God forbid, attack Steve again or, worse, what if I _forget_ him again...or forget myself or –"

She gently bumped his shoulder, silencing him. "I think that's a risk Steve's willing to take," she said. "The question is, are you?"

Was he? He didn't know. Maybe he never would. Maybe he'd always wake up and wonder if all of this was a dream, or continue to live in fear that the triggers would make themselves known, or maybe he'd simply go catatonic like Steve had, and get lost inside the hell that was his own mind. 

But he'd taken the hardest step, hadn't he? Real or not, it _felt_ like it was. And, at the end of the day, wasn't that what being human was all about? Weren't they all just the stories they told themselves, the feelings and thoughts and dreams and memories that made up a life? And maybe his story was filled with darkness and violence, with bloodshed and far too much lost time, but it also included truth and beauty and loyalty and, most of all, Steve. Steve, who was still the thru-line in everything, and those feelings Bucky had for him...well, those had never wavered. 

Real or not, Bucky had made a promise to Steve that he would stick around. And it was a promise he was determined to keep.

"There you go," Wanda said, grinning at him. "I don't even need to be a mind reader to see that you've finally figured it out."

He let out a rueful laugh. "Yeah, let's not get too carried away."

She chuckled, then let out a careful breath that caught slightly at the end. "Here is one thing I know for certain," she started, and her look was far older than her years. "Love – no matter what its form – is one of the most _real_ things any of us will find. And I think, as long as you hold onto that, you'll always be able to tell truth from lie."

He thought back over his nightmares again, and how empty he'd felt every single time he'd learned that Steve wasn't in the picture. How those few minutes he'd spent talking and arguing with Steve yesterday had made him feel alive and aware and _awake_ more than anything he could remember since their last mission together on a train racing through the Alps. What was reality when compared with that feeling of completeness? What did it matter if it was all in his head when he could have this as the prize?

"You're pretty smart," he finally told her, and clinked their mugs together. 

"Yes," she replied, and smiled at him again, mischievous and friendly. "I know."

***

_July 4th, 2016_

_Dear Buck,_

_Sam says I need to work on giving you more regular updates that aren't mission specific. And looking back over the first few letters, I hate to say it, but I think he's got a point. I guess I just got so used to writing mission reports that it's the first thing I default to. But these are supposed to be about keeping you up to date on what's going on, and, as you used to tell me all the time, there's a lot more to life than the mission._

_I guess I should start by telling you – well, it's not exactly happy news, but Peggy's gone. Happened right before Vienna, in fact. It's why Sam and I were in Europe to begin with. It was peaceful, so I hear. She went in her sleep. She still knew me, right up until the end, which – I'm just glad we were able to have a little bit of time together before, well, before. We talked about you a lot, too. Traded stories about you and the rest of the Howlies. It helped both of us, I think, to remind each other and maybe ourselves even, that these things happened. We lived through them._

_It's weird, thinking about what to tell you, what I think you might be interested in. We didn't get much of a chance to reconnect before you went under – that's not a dig, by the way. We obviously had higher priorities than sitting around and shooting the breeze. But I know you're a different man now, and so am I, and all of the things we used to think were important don't seem like much now._

_Do you still like baseball? I hope so. It'd be nice to – once everything is settled – to go to a game. The stadiums are a lot bigger these days, and there are a few rule changes I'm not too fond of (you wanna wind me up like you used to in the old days, just ask me about the designated hitter rule sometime), but the game itself hasn't changed, which is nice. And the Dodgers are actually pretty good these days – they've got some great pitching and some pretty solid hitters, and their stadium in Los Angeles may not be Ebbets, but you can't beat the view at sunset. I try to keep up with the scores when I can – it's easier now, in this day and age. There are apps for everything._

_I've been doing a lot of reading in my downtime, and no, before you even say anything, not just military history or catching up on what I missed (which is endless, by the way). Clint gave me the Harry Potter series – I'm on the second book, and so far, I think you'd really like it. It's exactly the sort of story you used to love. Fantastical creatures and magic and friendships that are just as strong as blood. T'Challa's also given me a set of books on Wakandan folklore that look pretty interesting. I can't wait to get into it._

_He's also a great sparring partner, as I'm sure you can imagine. I think it helps both of us stay focused and settled – he's got a lot on his plate these days. Being a king and having all of that responsibility for the health and well-being of an entire nation is a lot different than being the crown prince. Heavy is the head that wears the crown – or however the saying goes. I guess if Thor ever comes back to Earth, I should introduce him and T'Challa to each other. They'd probably have a lot to talk about._

_Maybe I'll bring my book with me when I come visit you next. I know I don't have your gift for reading aloud, but I'll do my best. I really think you'd like the story._

_I'll see you soon, okay._

_Yours,  
Steve_

***

Emboldened by his talk with Wanda, Bucky made his way back to Steve's room, and slipped inside, quietly shutting the door behind him. Steve was still in bed, his features lax in sleep, the line of his mouth smooth, the rise and fall of his chest steady with each breath.

And just like earlier, the simple act of looking at him – healthy and present and within touching distance – was like staring into the heart of a star. Blinding and brilliant, and the best gift Bucky could ever hope to get. 

And if this was just a product of his imagination or some nefarious plan by Hydra or another outside party to keep him in line, Bucky would take it every day of the week. He and Steve would make their own reality, together.

Steve stirred, summer-blue eyes blinking open as he let out a drawn-out yawn. When he saw Bucky standing by the bed, he smiled, showing off the laugh lines around his mouth and eyes. "Hey, you," he murmured, jaw cracking on another yawn. "Was wondering when you'd show up."

"Yeah, I, uh...lost track of the time." Bucky shuffled closer, hands clenched to keep from reaching out to see if Steve's skin was as warm as it looked. "You're, uh...you're feeling okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." Steve stretched to a sitting position, rotated his neck in small circles. He gestured at Bucky. "You?"

"Good as new." He couldn't stop staring at the line demarcating between Steve's bicep and tricep. Was it a little hot in here? Maybe wearing the henley indoors wasn't such a great idea. 

"Good." Steve's smile softened as his gaze slowly traveled over Bucky's body, from his head to his toes. There was nothing particularly heated or sexual about it, but Bucky's breath caught in his throat all the same. "You, uh, you wanna maybe get out of here, go for a walk or something?"

"Yeah, actually, that'd be...I'd like that," Bucky replied, bobbing his head up and down. "As long as you're sure you're up for it."

Steve lifted one of his eyebrows. "I wouldn't have suggested it if I wasn't."

"Liar," Bucky replied, fondly, but didn't press the issue. He figured they could go slow, if they needed to, and the change of scenery might do them some good. "Give me a minute to throw on some real pants and some shoes?" And maybe to slow the racing of his heart.

"Sure," Steve said, looking at himself with a wry chuckle. "Guess I should do the same myself."

Bucky wanted to tell him not to change, but he wasn't sure he'd be able to form an actual thought if Steve didn't at least put on a real shirt. "I'll, uh, be right back," he said and pointed, needlessly, at the door. 

He raced back to his own room, and made record time changing into jeans, and sneakers. When he walked into the hallway, Steve was waiting for him, also in jeans, but he'd thankfully thrown a hoodie on over his tank top. "So, where to?" Bucky asked, after an awkward beat of silence.

Steve cupped the nape of his neck, and shrugged. "There's a trail that leads up to the foothills of the mountains, thought we could go there."

"Sure." It wasn't like Bucky'd had a chance to explore the area.

They set out of the palace side by side, casting sidelong glances at each other, their shoes crunching over loose rocks and stray leaves. It was promising to be a beautiful day out – the sun was higher in the sky now, shining down on the trail and the forest around them, the air pungent with the scent of the flowers blooming on the acacia trees. Bucky could hear birdsong and the scurrying of insects and other woodland creatures, and the rush of the waterfalls ahead. 

"It's beautiful here," he remarked, after they'd walked the first mile in silence. 

"Yeah." Steve nodded, his hair shimmering gold in the light. "It's crazy to think we're in the middle of a major city." 

"Yep, pretty crazy," Bucky agreed. 

Steve gave him a quizzical look. "You gonna be this talkative the entire time? Because, I gotta say, I'm having trouble getting a word in edgewise."

Bucky inwardly winced as they climbed up the hill. "Sorry, I've just...got a lot on my mind is all." He rubbed his hands over his face, and blew out a sigh. "It's been a really weird few days."

"It's been a weird few years, Buck," Steve pointed out, and they shared a commiserate smile that seemed to break the ice. 

"I'm, uh, I'm sorry about yesterday, for, um, leaving like that, I mean," Bucky started, steeling himself for the conversation ahead. No wonder he and Steve had shied away from talking about their feelings for so long – just thinking about baring his soul was enough to make him long for the safety of the cryo chamber. Honestly, he'd rather be fighting an army than open himself up emotionally, and what the fuck did that say about him.

"It's fine." Steve waved him off, then stuck his hands in his hoodie as he looked out at the waterfalls. "It was kinda overwhelming for me, too."

Which made Bucky feel a little better. Maybe he wasn't the only one who'd needed space or to do some hard thinking about the way they'd left things, and what they might want now that they were both in the same place at the same time. "You, uh, you mind if I ask you something?"

Steve gave him a look like he couldn't figure out if Bucky was joking or not. "When have you ever needed to ask?" 

"I dunno, since I was brainwashed by Hydra for almost seven decades and avoided you for two years, and then bailed into cryo for a year over talking to you?" 

"Yeah," Steve replied, with a sardonic twist of his lips, "I guess it does sound pretty bad when you put it like that." 

"Exactly," Bucky said, then swallowed. He had to bite down on the instinct to brush off the question, to not to burden Steve with his issues, the instinct to deflect and protect too deeply ingrained. They were never going to get anywhere if they couldn't find a place to start. 

"What happened six months ago when they brought me out of cryo the first time? The truth," he said, when Steve hesitated. 

"You really don't remember?"

Bucky shook his head. "I remember laughing with you over a joke, then nothing." It didn't mean the memory wouldn't come back, but he couldn't wait for his mind to catch up to him. Whatever had happened that day had fucked Steve up so bad he'd fled right into a poorly planned mission over sticking around in Wakanda, and had ended up getting captured as a result. It wasn't something they could just sweep under the rug, not if they wanted to move forward. 

"Yeah, yeah, okay." Steve stopped and turned to him, his feet planted like he was bracing himself for a fight. "One second, you were _fine_ , I swear, you were you and answering Shuri's questions and..." He drew his shoulders back, his arms stiff at his sides. "And, the next, you – I'm not sure what happened or what it was that anyone said that triggered you, but..."

Bucky laid his hand on Steve's arm, steadying him. "It's okay," he said, soothingly. "I'm here, remember. Keep going."

Steve covered Bucky's hand with his own, and nodded. "You were...I _knew_ it wasn't you, okay, but – you were going after Dr. Denri and one of the lab techs and – I stopped you," he finished, his voice barely a whisper.

"You knocked me out?" Bucky guessed.

Steve shook his head, the anguish in his eyes a living, palpable thing. "I shot you."

Bucky rocked back on his heels. "Oh." 

Fuck, no wonder Steve's letter from that day had been so frantic.

Steve nodded, self-recrimination twisting his features. "I just...grabbed the nearest weapon I could find, which happened to be one of Shuri's prototype repulsor weapons," he said, drawing out every word like it physically pained him to say them. "You went down like a ton of bricks. I mean, it all happened so fast, I didn't think, but –"

"I need you to promise me that you'll do it again."

"What?" Steve stumbled, his grip loosening on Bucky's hand, but Bucky caught his elbow, and pulled him back in close.

"I mean it, okay," he said, quiet, but resolute. "If I ever go back into Winter Soldier mode, for any reason, I need you to take me out." 

"You want me to _shoot_ you again?" Steve asked, aghast.

"I want you to do whatever it takes to neutralize me," Bucky said, shaking his head when Steve opened his mouth. "Steve, you _can't_ let me hurt anyone again. Promise me."

Steve was headstrong and stubborn and would fight you until the cows came home if he thought he was right (and he always thought he was right), but he'd never once backed out on a promise, and they both knew it.

Steve looked like he wanted to argue, but Bucky wasn't budging, not about this. He kept his grip on Steve's elbow and met Steve's pugnacious look with his own implacable one. "I need the words. _Promise_ me."

Finally, after another hard glare, Steve gave in and reluctantly nodded. "Fine," he said, practically spitting out the word. "I promise. Just as long as you promise you'll do the same for me."

"What are you talking about?" Bucky asked, frowning. 

"I could have just as many triggers in my head as you do, now," Steve stated, with a shrug. "You said it yourself – they had me six weeks, and I don't remember any of it. I just remember being on that helicarrier, waiting for you to show up so I could either turn you or kill you."

Bucky's heart spasmed, but fair was fair, and God knew Steve would never be able to live with himself if he hurt anyone, even unintentionally. "You're right," he said. "I promise, I'll stop you if you go off the rails."

Steve eased out of Bucky's hold, and started back along the path. "You know they're not gonna stop trying to get you back into the fold."

"Yeah, I know," Bucky replied, with another shrug. He was used to being hunted. "And now that they've gotten their hooks in you, they'll probably make another play for you, too."

"I know." Steve lifted his head to the sky, showcasing that proud jawline and the curve of his throat. "But we still know something they don't, and that's that we can save each other, if it comes down to it. And that's...that's worth the risk."

Bucky thought back to what Wanda had told him, what felt like so long ago, even though it had only been a couple of days – _You saved him when the helicarriers fell and he saved you in Siberia and now it's your turn again and after that, perhaps it's time you both take a break and just learn to be._ And maybe it _was_ time for them to take a break, to figure out how their broken pieces could fit against each other, to see if they had a shot at building something that was theirs. 

"So, I owe you another apology," Bucky started, only to have Steve shake his head.

"C'mon, you don't owe me anything –"

Bucky pulled up short and jabbed a metal finger hard against Steve's ribs. "For once in your fucking life, could your first instinct be to _listen_ instead of argue?"

Steve opened his mouth, then just as abruptly shut it, his jaw clicking with the movement. "Fine," he gritted out, through clenched teeth.

Bucky waited another few seconds, but Steve stayed silent, mulishly staring at him like this was a dare he was determined to win. That look was pure cussedness, made Bucky miss the spitfire Steve used to be, before the serum and the War.

"This is actually painful for you, isn't it?" Bucky observed, unable to stop the grin.

Steve just glowered at him, and made a _hurry up and get on with it_ gesture. Bucky gave half a thought to drawing this out, just to torture Steve a little more, but he knew if he didn't say what he had to say soon, he'd try to find a way to bury it.

"Alright, fine, I'll take pity on you." The smile bled away from his face as he centered his thoughts. He didn't have Steve's gift for words, but he hoped Steve wouldn't mind that this wouldn't be perfect. It was time to plant his feet and make a stand. And it was well past time they had some honesty between them. "While you were – while we were all trying to figure out a way to get you back – I read your journal. The letters you wrote to me while I was under."

"Buck –"

"Just _listen_." Bucky squeezed Steve's hand in warning. "Just...I'm sorry, okay, let me say it. I'm sorry." He blinked to clear the prickling in his eyes. "It never even occurred to me that you'd changed every bit as much as I had. That you had to harden yourself even more just to survive. That you've been fighting just as long as I have, only you've never had the chance to just...stop." He glanced down at Steve's hand, still encased in his own. Felt the nicks and calluses, a lifetime of war grafted into too delicate skin. His brave Steve, always fighting the good fight, no matter what the cost to himself. "I'm sorry I couldn't see that, and I'm sorry that I wasn't there for you...but I am now. And I know it's not –"

"Okay, stop, just...enough already." Steve pulled him into a rough hug, his breath hot on Bucky's neck, one of his hands buried in Bucky's hair. "Enough. I forgive you, alright. I forgive you."

Bucky clung tight as a sob tore through him, breaking loose on a gasp. He folded under the weight of it, Steve's arms tightening around him, offering a safe haven. And Bucky took it for all it was worth, cried to the rhythm of Steve's heart, Steve's breaths, clear and constant and the best remedy on the planet. The tears cleansed him, washed away his shame and anger and the worst of his doubt (not all of it, no, he knew he'd never be free of that particular shackle on his soul), leaving him weak and somehow effervescent. Through it all, Steve held him, murmured nonsense, words meant to soothe, to heal, and Bucky drank in every one, held fast to the one true thing he'd always been able to count on in this world.

When he finally looked up, swiping at the damp trails still on his cheeks, it was to find Steve's own eyes were also wet, and his face was splotchy-red. He'd always been an ugly crier, but right then, to Bucky, Steve had never looked more beautiful. 

"Feel better?" Steve asked, his voice raspy, as he thumbed away a stray tear at the corner of Bucky's eye.

"Yeah," Bucky admitted, bumping his forehead against Steve's. "You?"

"Yeah, actually." Steve let out a quiet laugh. "Feels kinda cathartic."

Bucky nodded in agreement. "That's a good word for it," he said, and reluctantly pulled out of Steve's embrace. "And, uh, while we're talking about it...while I was under – in cryo, I mean – I had these...uh..." Even now, he wasn't sure what to call them. "Dreams, or hallucinations...my mind trying to work its way back to the surface, maybe..." He offered a helpless shrug. "Dr. A'kane said it might've been my subconscious overhearing what had happened to you and trying to figure out how to get you back, so, um...but the point is, you were _gone_ in every single one of them and it was so _real_ and I couldn't...I didn't know how to bring you back – You were dead or just _gone_ and I couldn't convince anyone that you were alive –" 

"Jesus, I'm sorry, Buck. I'm sorry you went through that," Steve said, with so much heartfelt empathy that Bucky wanted to wrap himself up in it like a blanket. To bask in all of that fierce devotion and protection for the rest of his life.

"I'm not, though, because it made me realize something. A life without you in it isn't much of a life at all," he said. "Even if I magically got everything I thought I ever wanted – my freedom, for everyone I've ever hurt or killed to somehow be okay, to go back in time before either of us ever joined the Army in the first place – it wouldn't mean anything if it meant you were gone."

Steve's gaze softened. "I know a little bit about what that's like."

How could he have forgotten that Steve had lived for years thinking Bucky was dead? He knew exactly what Bucky'd been going through. God, they really were a pair.

"I guess you do," he agreed, and sniffled, tilting his head up to the soft breeze. "So, look, I don't care if any of this is real or all in my head, as long as you're here. Even if everything falls apart and we never eradicate Hydra or...even if we step foot outside Wakanda and wind up in a cell somewhere, I'll take it. 

"And if you tell me this is real," he continued, "then I'll believe it. Because I may not be able to trust myself these days, but I trust you."

Maybe he'd never truly know if this was real or just some elaborate dream, but he had to stop letting fear paralyze him. It was time to live again.

"Not too sure I deserve it, but yeah, for what it's worth, I think this is real," Steve replied, and tugged at Bucky's hand until Bucky turned to face him. "So...does this mean you're ready to talk about what you told me when you were in my head?"

Was he? Were they? This was such a big step, and what if he fucked it all up, and ruined the one good thing he had in this world? What if Steve didn't want anything more than friendship? What if this triggered him or triggered Steve in some way, what if...what _if_? So many elements, so many unknowns.

"Maybe?" he said, slowly. "You, uh, really remember that?"

"You told me you loved me." Steve's eyes were fever-bright; he was still holding fast to Bucky's hand. "Not exactly the kind of thing I'd forget." 

No, Bucky thought, he wouldn't have forgotten something like that, either. "Do you _want_ to talk about it?" he asked, still carefully testing out the waters.

"Did you mean it?" Steve whispered, fierce and low, and there was no way Bucky could respond with anything other than the unvarnished truth.

"Yes." Steve shuddered, a small noise escaping his lips, and the look on his face was so hopeful that Bucky's heart tumbled all over again. "And you don't have to say anything, I'm not expecting you to feel the same or –" 

He was cut off when Steve grabbed a fistful of his hoodie and jerked him forward until they were flush against each other. He stilled, rocked to his very core, sparks igniting under his skin, as Steve's warm breath puffed over his lips. "You've always been an idiot," Steve murmured, fond, then closed the final, minute distance between them, bringing their mouths together.

Forget sparks, Bucky was burning up from the inside out. Dry lips pressed against his, tasting, teasing, and Bucky listed to one side, off-balance, bracing his metal hand on Steve's shoulder as he tilted his head to get a better angle. 

Steve kissed just like he did everything else – with supreme confidence and a swaggering sort of skill that had always made Bucky proud to stand by his side. He molded his mouth to Bucky's like he absolutely belonged, threading his fingers through Bucky's hair to hold him in place for the slow roll of his tongue. Need shimmered between them, an oasis beckoning Bucky to explore further, to take more. He poured every ounce of desire and want – decades of love and devotion – into the next kiss, heated and slick, and was rewarded with a startled moan that reverberated between them like a perfectly timed punch. 

He was still off-balance and panting when Steve eased back slightly, a small, immensely satisfied smile on his face.

"I love you," Steve said, his voice hushed, a confessional for the two of them alone, "Pretty sure I always have. Beyond anything I ever felt for anyone else...it's always been you."

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, but a few tears managed to leak out anyway. _It's always been you._ Years, they wasted. Decades. And maybe it was better this way, maybe it wasn't. Maybe Bucky wouldn't have made so many mistakes, wouldn't have run so far, so fast, if he'd known how Steve felt about him. Maybe they could have recovered from their trauma together, discovered this new world side by side, could have helped each other heal.

But that was the past. Immovable. Unfixable. All they had was this moment, the present. And here and now, they were together, open and honest, no lies or distance between them. He had no idea what tomorrow would bring, or where they'd go from here, or how either of them could start to repay the debt they owed to T'Challa and everyone else, but that was something they could figure out once the two of them took stock of things.

The two of them. Together. It had a nice ring to it.

Bucky blinked, the edges of the path swimming into focus. Steve was smiling at him, golden and healthy and beautiful. His past and present and future all wrapped up in one impossible, stubborn, gorgeous man. How the hell did he get to be so lucky?

Their next kiss was as light as air, a delicate meeting of lips that settled every reservation Bucky might've had. At the first flicker of Steve's tongue, Bucky opened his mouth, and lost himself in Steve's taste, earthy and slightly stale, but addictive as hell. He cupped the back of Steve's neck, slid his hand upward into the softness of Steve's hair and held on as the kiss turned, became less about reconnection and more about pure, raw lust. Every inch of Bucky's skin sang in triumph – finally, he was right where he belonged.

"Buck, are you –" Steve's breath was ragged, his mouth bruised and temptingly pink, and his hair an absolute wreck from Bucky's fingers. He looked perfect. "If you wanna go slow, I'll understand, I mean, if it's been awhile for –"

"You're not the first since I came back to myself, if that's your question." But God, Bucky loved him so much for asking it threatened to swallow him whole. "After...after I started discovering who I was and what I liked, there were...a few people here and there." Anonymous encounters, where the focus had been solely physical, Bucky reclaiming his body and his preferences.

"Nat kept trying to set me up with dates, but I wasn't interested in a relationship," Steve confessed, toying with the hairs on Bucky's nape. "Sex with no strings attached was a lot easier. And I could just be...anybody. No one cared who I really was – some of them didn't even care about learning my name and that was fine, it was what I needed back then, but now I –"

Bucky shut him up with another kiss, this one firm. Staking his claim. "I know who you are, Steve. I love you and I _know_ you."

"I know you, too," Steve replied, with flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips. "I always have."

 _I know you too._ And he did, that was the miracle of it all. Steve _knew_ him. All of his flaws and fuck-ups and regrets, knew him and loved him anyway. 

He leaned in, Steve meeting him halfway, and the kiss was salty and slick and messily perfect. Both of them were smiling when they parted, and Bucky thought maybe – just maybe – he could see a future for both of them in the way Steve's mouth turned up at the corners, the way Steve was still holding onto him just as tightly as he was holding onto Steve.

"Say my name," he whispered, knowing Steve would understand.

Steve's smile grew, incandescent now, spilling forth like jewels sparkling in the sun. "Bucky Barnes," he murmured, and pressed his lips to the corner of Bucky's mouth, the promise in it unmistakable. Renewal, hope, _home_. "Your name is Bucky."

***

_April 29, 2017_

_Dear Buck,_

_Yeah yeah yeah, I can already hear you calling me a bleeding heart sap for writing this, especially since you're sleeping right next to me, but I guess it's a habit now. For so long, writing these letters was the only way I knew to connect to you –_

_But you're here now. Taking up most of the space in the bed, face mashed into the pillow, and drooling a little bit – and it's so familiar, yet it feels brand new. Because now I get to reach out and trace each knob of your spine with my fingertips, and I can finally kiss that little mole under your right shoulder blade, and I can roll you over and wake you up with my lips on yours and know that your sleepy, soft smile will be all for me._

_I have no idea what the future will hold. It feels weird not having a plan or a strategy or a goal. And I'm not naive enough to think that we'll be able to stay on the sidelines forever, or keep ourselves wrapped in this cocoon we've spun. Maybe we are still at war, and maybe our fight will never be over, but we're together, and I think – if I ever get a chance to talk to Tony again, I'll tell him I finally get what he meant when he said that he put on the Iron Man suit and started fighting so he could come home at the end of the day. Because now I'll be with you in the trenches again, and I'll have a reason to want to make it through the days and the battles ahead._

_And, because I don't want either of us to ever forget this, I'm gonna write this down, too. Just in case we ever get lost again, or need a reminder of what's real or what's true. I love you, Bucky Barnes. I love you. I always have and I always will, and I will always find my way to your side. And that's a truth and a promise that I'll keep in this life and every one after._

_No matter where we go from here, as long as I'm with you, I'll always be home._

_Yours always ,  
Steve_


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cover Art by [Jessie](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/azewewish/495704/47691/47691_900.jpg) :)

**Author's Note:**

> All of the thanks in the world to [Boop](http://stephrc79.tumblr.com/) and [Steph](http://stephrc79.tumblr.com/) and [Jessie](https://lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com/), for their unending patience and notes and betas - this story would not have been possible without them. (And an especial thanks to Jessie for their amazing companion art for the fic.)
> 
> You can now find me on [Tumblr](http://brendaonao3.tumblr.com/). :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Sleeping Journals](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13972356) by [Lucidnancyboy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucidnancyboy/pseuds/Lucidnancyboy), [stephrc79](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephrc79/pseuds/stephrc79)




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